The Ruined Cities of Zululand

A second deer swam the stream, and this time it was different.

“Let him go, Wyzinski,” whispered Hughes; “the alligators won’t touch him while he is swimming.”

“Take the shot yourself; see, he nears the bank.”

The report of the rifle rang out just as the deer scrambled up it, startling whole flocks of wild duck out of the reeds and rushes. The antelope, with a broken leg, fell, but quickly struggling up again, would have escaped into the bush, when a second ball from Wyzinski’s rifle stopped it. The deer proved to be a fine buck, of an ashy grey, with long horns like a goat, of a yellowish brown colour. The horns at first when starting from the head trended directly backwards, and then curved forwards, the tips being very pointed. The legs were remarkably short for a deer, and it could not be very swift on land, for, added to the shortness of limb, the girth round the carcass was very large. The dead buck measured nearly eleven feet in length, and ten in circumference.

“What a beautiful spot!” remarked Hughes, towards three o’clock in the afternoon. “The green bank slopes down to the water’s edge, and the turf, dotted with its clumps of palmyra, acacia, and date-trees, looks for all the world like a gentleman’s park. Behind rises the forest, where we can suppose the baronial hall to lie, and in the distance the lofty range of the Nyamonga mountains. We only want the lodge gates to complete the picture.”

“You are a bad auctioneer, Hughes,” laughed his comrade; “you have omitted the greatest charm. I mean the river, with its beautiful reeds waving in the breeze, its magnificent water-lilies, and the flocks of wild duck floating in and out.”

“Some of them are really very beautiful, and I never saw any like them. Look at that lot sailing away before us, their necks, backs, and throats a beautiful orange, while the head is glossy black. They must be splendid divers, and what a rate they go at.”

“I never saw ducks before,” replied the more scientific missionary, “possessing the power of partially submerging themselves; only the head and top of the back is above water as they paddle along. Steer the canoe in shore, there are quantities of wild duck there.”

“But not the same sort; see, the head is brown, beautifully pencilled with black,” said Hughes, as they all ceased rowing, and the boat, left to the current, glided among the broad leaves of the water-lilies, “the body and wings the same, while a deep yellow ring runs round the neck. There they go,” he continued, “spattering along the water, just like water-hens, and then diving.”

Floating slowly on, the canoe entered a little bay, where a quantity of drift wood had accumulated. “Only look, Hughes; why there are hundreds of them feeding apparently on insects found on the floating wood,” cried Wyzinski.

“Again another species, for these are of a brownish-red, intermixed with dirty white. What say you to landing in our park, taking possession, and having our dinner there?”

“Agreed; but first of all I must have that bird; I never saw one like it,” replied the missionary. Strange birds of brilliant plumage were flying about; among others, a small one, which hovered over the water like a hawk, espying its finny prey doubtless from its dizzy height; and then, apparently shutting its wings, would drop or dart into the river, like a stone, making the water splash around. A shot gun had been placed in the boat, and the missionary wounded one of these birds. For fully ten minutes the canoe chased it, the bird diving and remaining so long under water that it was almost impossible to tell where it would rise, and eventually it got away.

The day was hot, although a cool breeze was blowing on the river, bending down the long reeds on the banks, as heated with their long chase, and laughing at their failure, the boat was forced through the drift wood into the little bay, and eventually made fast by a rope to the trunk of a tree.

“Here, Noti, help me to haul out the carcass of the water-buck, and we’ll make a fire under yonder clump,” shouted Hughes as he leaped ashore.

The fire was soon blazing merrily, and great collops of venison roasting before it. The monkeys came grinning and chattering among the branches, looking at the intruders, and occasionally pelting pieces of bark at them; strange birds of bright plumage circled round them, and whole flocks of ducks went winding about among the leaves of the water-lilies before their eyes.

Seated under the shade of a splendid tree, the bright knives were soon at work, and a hearty meal made, washed down by clear cool water from the springs of Gorongoza.

“What do you say to making an hour or two of halt here, Wyzinski?” said Hughes, with his mouth full of venison meat. “It’s a sweet spot, and we could pull gently down the river in the cool of the night.”

“I should like very much to secure some specimens of the strange birds I see here,” replied the missionary, “and the moon rises early.”

“Well, then, take Noti with you, and Masheesh and I will be boat-keepers. I shall have a sleep.”

Taking a short gun, and calling to Noti to fetch his rifle and follow him, Wyzinski strolled away leisurely into the bush, having first taken the bearings of the place by means of a small pocket compass he always carried.

Covering up the remains of the buck with green branches to keep it fresh, Hughes took a good pull at the gourd of water, and then lay down, Masheesh strolling towards the boat. The mosquitos were too troublesome, however, so he rose, joined the Matabele in pushing off the canoe, anchored her by means of a rope and stone, lay down, and was soon fast asleep at the bottom of the boat. Half awake at first, the faint report of Wyzinski’s gun came now and then upon his ear, but at last sleep prevailed. The sun was low, and his beams slanting over the forest-land, when, aroused by Masheesh shaking the branches with which he had covered him, Captain Hughes awoke. It is a peculiarity common to those who lead a life of danger and adventure, that the moment of awakening at once restores all their faculties. They begin, as it were, where they left off. Such was the case in the present instance, for one look at the Matabele’s face at once told Hughes that something was wrong. Carefully raising himself in the light canoe, a glance showed the danger. There, on the beautiful green patch where the party had eaten their meal, three splendid lions were walking to and fro, rolling on the grass, growling and playing, and a lioness with one cub had shown herself and retired previously. It was a splendid sight to watch these magnificent animals at their gambols; but what of Wyzinski, what of Noti, the one armed with a shot gun, the other with a rifle he only half understood, and what was worse, both utterly unconscious of the presence of the owners of the land. Presently one of the old lions stopped for a moment, snuffing like a dog with his nose in the air, and then walking deliberately to the travellers’ impromptu, larder, drew forth the remains of the water-buck. A second at once seized it, the third came up, and a tremendous mêlée ensued, during which the body of the deer was riven into pieces, and lions and carrion seemed rolling about in one heap. Motioning to the Matabele, and with his help gently lifting the anchor clear of the ground, the boat was suffered to drop down the stream, its occupants using their hands as paddles on the off side. By this means it arrived within fifteen paces of the bank, where the lions were now feeding quietly, when the stone was again dropped, and the canoe swung head to stream. They, thinking it to be an alligator, had not taken the slightest notice of the boat, and went on feeding, tearing and riving the flesh, but stopping now and then to growl savagely at each other. Just then, Hughes caught a faint report, and the noise of the shot gun being even at that distance easily distinguished from the sharper crack of the rifle, it told him that the missionary was as yet safe and far away, the report coming to his ears only as a distant echo.

Thinking it better to leave the animals to feed, he and Masheesh watched them. Half an hour passed, the flesh being nearly gone, and a few of the larger bones only remaining. The ducks were sailing about the canoe, the birds gliding here and there; but sunset was approaching, and it became absolutely necessary to get rid of them. Leaning his rifle across the slight gunwale, Hughes took a steady aim. Just in front of him sat a great lion, with the last remnants of the buck’s forequarters flung over his paws, crunching at the bones. The report rang out, startling the whole crew, but whether from nervousness, or from some motion of the boat, he knew not, the shot missed; the startled animals, after gazing for a moment, trotted deliberately off, Hughes firing another barrel after them. One of them turned at the second shot, growling fiercely, then the whole disappeared in the cover, while the ring of the shot gun was heard about a mile away, replying to that from the river. The report came from a direction exactly opposite to that in which the lions had disappeared. A quarter of an hour later the long plaintive cry of the Australian bushranger was heard and replied to, and then Wyzinski made his appearance, breaking his way through the bush, his dress torn, and about thirty different kinds of birds dangling round his waist. To his great surprise, Hughes rushed forward and shook him by the hand.

“Why, what’s the matter?” he asked.

“Matter enough; have you seen any lions?”

“I have not seen anything except these birds, some snakes, and a great many different kinds of monkeys, some of them very large.”

“Where’s Noti?” was the next question, “I’m sure I don’t know,” replied the missionary. “He left me to follow a caracal.”

“Did you hear any lions about?”

“No, nor was I likely; that beast does not ramble during the day. I saw great quantities of monkeys, I repeat.”

Hughes told his tale, and the full danger of Noti’s situation was realised. Night, too, was now falling. The three set to work to collect brushwood, and the shot gun soon procured them some ducks for supper. A roaring fire was lighted, and enough wood got together to keep it up. All night long the lions were heard roaring, the cry of the jackals and hyenas showed that they too were very numerous, and several large snakes, one of them more than eight feet long, came within the light of the fire. The bush swarmed with monkeys, and when the moon rose, silvering the river with her light two lions were seen to cross the open. Still there were no tidings of the missing Noti. The three men watched by turns all night in the canoe, one of them landing from time to time to keep up the fire. Wyzinski’s Australian bush cry rang out at times on the still air of the African night. It was since the affair of the lioness of Zoutpansburgh perfectly well-known to all in camp, but no responsive shout came back, though the night was so still that the watchers often thought they could distinguish the roar of the far distant surf. Morning dawned on the anxious men, the birds woke up and began skimming about, the ducks sailed out from among the reeds and water-lilies, and still no signs of Noti.

“I fear we have lost one of our number,” observed the missionary, as he let fly into a flock of duck, knocking over four. “Let us ask Masheesh to pluck and cook those, and you and I go in search of poor Noti.”

“Agreed,” replied the soldier, who was standing in the water of a small pool, having a good wash. A loud cry from Masheesh, who had just secured the fourth duck, was heard, when a figure was seen staggering out of the wood, into the open. It was Noti, who came on, his gun raised above his head, reeling like a drunken man, and before he had traversed half the space, falling heavily on his face to the ground.

Rising, the black stumbled forward a few paces and again fell heavily. Lifting him gently, the three carried the poor fellow to the canoe, placed him in it, washed the clotted gore from his face, breast, and left side, covering him with branches.

Attracted by the blood, the flow of which it was impossible to stop, the flies came round in myriads, and it was deemed best to paddle down the river, Masheesh tending the dying man, for such he evidently was.

An hour afterwards, Noti was no more; but just before he breathed his last, consciousness returned, and he was able to tell his tale.

He had lost his way following the caracal, had wandered about he knew not where. Had heard the shots fired at the lions, and one of the animals passing not far from him, he had climbed into a tree, knowing he would not be deserted. All night long they had roamed about him, one apparently wounded lying down under the tree where he lay concealed. Towards morning it got up and walked into the bush.

Guided by the Australian bush cry, which he had heard perfectly, Noti had come down from his tree. Trembling with fear, the black moved cautiously on, and suddenly found himself face to face with the wounded lion, who instantly sprang upon him. The rifle exploded, but how, the poor frightened wretch never knew, for beast and man were rolling on the ground together, and doubtless startled by the report, similar to that which preceded his wound, the lion bounded away, leaving the mangled insensible Noti on the ground. Its claws had dreadfully disfigured his face, and the powerful jaws had crushed in the ribs of the right side. The whole had passed in a few seconds, and now at the bottom of the boat lay the corpse of poor Noti.

About one o’clock that day the bar was reached, and the three gazed upon the long blue line of ocean, with its restless waves, tipped with foam. “I had no idea the river was so marshy at its mouth, nor that we should find a bar,” said Hughes.

“There is almost invariably one at the mouth of African rivers; and look at the herons fishing. There are quantities of these birds, and they seem smaller than any I have seen before. What a beautiful dark purple; and the throat, too, streaked with purple lines, only they have no tail,” said Wyzinski. “And the birds’ nests, only see what a number of them; they actually overhang the water, seeming to all but touch the river.”

“That is almost always the case where snakes abound,” replied the missionary. “The birds know that water is their best protector from these reptiles; and these are the nest builders, those bright yellow birds scarce seven inches long. How active they are.”

In truth the river abounded with life. There were hawks and eagles soaring near, birds of beautiful colours darting to and fro. The kingfisher, with its heavy scarlet bill, and its wings of bright blue, came dashing past, while another and even more beautiful bird kept crossing before the canoe as if accompanying it, its head a bright green colour, with wings of purple and green mixed, and long dark purple tail.

“Well, I am not sorry to see the blue waves once more, and to hear the scream of the gulls and Mother Carey’s chickens,” exclaimed Hughes, as they stepped on shore, and hauled the canoe up bodily on the bank.

“Look yonder, under the palm and date-trees, are some Kaffir huts. Let us see what they are,” said Wyzinski.

Telling Masheesh to stop by the boat, which yet contained the body of the dead Noti, the two took their way to the kraal. There were about twenty huts, and the tribe seemed very poor. The first group they came to was composed of women.

“There, Hughes,” said the missionary, “that smacks of Egyptian customs, anyway.”

“What does?” inquired the other. “I see nothing but some women grinding maize.”

“Just so, but look at the mode of doing it. The old Egyptian hieroglyphics exactly reproduce it.”

This was indeed the case, but the chief of the tribe now advanced to meet them. He was a tall long-limbed man of a deep brown tint, with grey hair and regular features—not in any one respect resembling the Kaffirs, except as to dress, or rather the want of it.

“Well, that is strange,” remarked Hughes. “If I was in India, I should say I saw an Arab. Speak to him, Wyzinski.”

The missionary, using the Zulu dialect, asked his name.

“Achmet Ben Arif,” replied the man. “It is the first time for many years the trader has reached the ruins of Sofala.”

“Ruins!” exclaimed Wyzinski, at once mounting his favourite hobby, “where are they?”

The Arab, for such in effect he was, together with all his tribe, raised his hand, pointing to a spot a few hundred yards distant, where mounds and fragments of fallen masonry were visible.

The missionary was moving away before the chief had done speaking, eager to reach the ruins.

“But how,” asked Hughes, speaking his own tongue, which he had acquired in India, “how comes an Arab tribe settled here?”

“We know not,” replied the chief. “For ages have our fathers lived here, near the ruins of the white man’s fort.”

“And yet you have preserved the Arab language, and the Arab blood.”

“Pure and unchanged, our customs, language and tradition remain as they were; the dress of our people alone is altered. And instead of the bournous of our fathers, we wear skins like the Kaffir. It is our destiny. We have gold if the white chiefs will trade.”

“We are not traders, chief. But what are the ruins yonder? Who built them?”

“The fathers of your own people; the white traders of Tété and the Zambesi.”

These, then, were the ruins of the Portuguese fort of Sofala, consequently the river the party had descended, which Masheesh called the Golden River, was once the means of extensive trade with the interior. Leaving the chief, Hughes joined the missionary, communicating to him the result of his conversation. The ruins of a large stone fort were crumbling away before them, the masses of fallen masonry gradually disappearing before the slow but steady action of time, besides being partially buried in the sand drifted up before the winter gales. The Arab chief followed them, after having spoken to the men near him, several of whom started off in different directions, two sauntering lazily down to the boat. The old man seemed puzzled as to what interest could attach to the ruins.

“The stones,” said he, raising his hand as he spoke, and pointing over the ocean, whose waves were rolling in thunder on the bar,—“the stones came from over the big water to build the white man’s fort.”

“That’s nonsense,” exclaimed the missionary, speaking in English, and wandering from mound to mound. “They were taken from some ruins in the interior, and it is those we seek. The mined cities of Zulu land.”

“How firmly you have got that into your head, Wyzinski,” replied his companion.

“Into my head. Do you not see, do you not remember what Masheesh told us this morning?” returned the missionary in an excited tone. “Away yonder to the north and west, running through a territory disputed between Mozelkatse and Machin, are the rivers Thati and Ramaquotan. There lie the gold fields of Solomon somewhere in that neighbourhood; the ruined cities of the mighty old Egyptians, the ancient gold diggers, crumble into dust.”

“You are crazy on the subject, Wyzinski. What has an old Portuguese fort to do with all this?” replied Hughes, seriously.

“You are blind, Hughes, or will not see,” returned the other, in a sharp tone. “Did not Masheesh call yonder river the Golden River—and why?”

“Because gold may have been found in its banks, or on its bar. The thing is simple enough, Wyzinski.”

“It is you that are simple,” said the excited man. “The river brought down the boats with their cargo of gold, dug near the sources of the Limpopo. The Sofala of the Portuguese is the Ophir of Solomon. Here the ships of Tarshish came, and from that trade in gold the river took, and still keeps its name—the Golden River.”

There was nothing for it but to accept the dogma. The Arab chief looked on in grave silence, but no further information could be extracted from him, and except the direct visual evidence that a strong stone fort had existed here, which was known to have been Portuguese, nothing could be discovered. The ruins were nearly buried in sand, but there they still remain on the shores of South Africa, the fort of Sofala being well-known to all the traders on the coast, and the high headland near them being a much-used landmark for mariners. The moon rose, and Masheesh having borrowed a hoe, the whole party set to work to bury their dead. They took it in turns, the Matabele chief at first objecting, but ultimately taking his spell at it. Wyzinski was in the hole, working vigorously and silently, the regular roll of the ocean on the bar being the only sound heard. Masheesh was squatted by the open grave, his knees drawn up and his elbows resting on them, the palms of his hands supporting his head. Hughes stood gazing over the broad expanse of the Indian Ocean, with his forage-cap in his hand, the cool sea breeze playing amidst the heavy masses of dark hair which waved uncared for over his sun-burnt forehead. Suddenly the vigorous strokes of the hoe ceased, its sharp broad edge had struck something, and the missionary stooping lifted that something, tossed it on the bank, and jumped out of the grave. A piece of massive masonry overshadowed the spot casting a long dark shadow over the Kaffir’s resting-place among the ruins of Sofala, as snatching up what looked like a mere stone, Wyzinski stepped into the moonlight and began rubbing away the sand and dust from what proved to be a bar of pure gold, evidently smelted and worked into its present shape. It was a curious sight, the moon shining brightly on the ruined masses of masonry, streaming over the rolling ocean waves, lighting up the date and palmyra trees, with their long fan-like leaves, and showing the group eagerly bending over the gold, while stiff and stark beside them lay the dead body of the Kaffir, Noti. Then came a warning cry from the Matabele warrior, and the next moment a line of dusky savages, armed with their assegais and war-clubs, swept round them.

It was a peculiarity of the missionary’s never to lose the quiet calmness of his manner, under any circumstances, however trying. The greater the danger the more quiet, cool, and methodical he seemed to become. Unarmed, for their rifles were in the canoe, and consequently utterly defenceless, the whole party stood among the ruins of Sofala, surrounded by the warriors of the Arab tribe, while Wyzinski, as if nothing more than ordinary had happened, seated himself on a ruined slab, more accurately to examine the bar of gold.

The old chief Achmet advanced, and using the Arab tongue, addressed the soldier, who felt none of the stern coolness of the missionary.

“I thought the white men were not merchants, and refused gold,” the old man remarked. “They are then thieves who rob, and not fair traders who barter.”

“We found the gold by chance, chief.”

The Arab laughed. “The white men came down the river by chance, to the very spot where we find from time to time the gold buried; by chance they dig for it and find it. Let them not laugh at an old man, whose grey hairs will not bear it. Mashallah, let them give back the gold, or my children take it.”

“You are welcome, chief,” replied the soldier, taking the bar from Wyzinski, who seemed sunk in reverie, and giving it to Achmet. “And now withdraw your warriors, and let us finish what we are about.”

“Are the white men murderers as well as gold seekers?” asked Achmet Ben Arif, pointing to the dead body which lay dark and motionless in the moonlight.

“Look for yourself, chief. The wounds will tell their own tale,” answered the other.

The old man bent over the corpse, putting his hand on the torn face, and feeling the broken ribs. His fingers followed the wounds for several minutes, then rising, “It is a lion which has done this,” he said.

“It is, chief,” and Hughes told how the death had occurred.

Achmet turned to his warriors, spoke a few words with them, when they retired, vanishing among the trees as silently as they had appeared, the old chief alone remaining.

“And you say,” asked Wyzinski, “that you often find worked and smelted gold here?”

“Yes,” replied the chief, “often.”

“It is Portuguese, and wherever they have drawn it from is the country we seek, the ancient Ophir of Solomon. There can be no doubt of that.”

“Let the white men bury their dead,” answered Achmet; “and let them seek Machin, chief of Manica, and the Makoapa.”

And so poor Noti was lowered into his grave, and the missionary breathed the white man’s prayer over the Kaffir resting-place, among the crumbling ruins of Sofala. Heavy stones were rolled over the spot to baulk the jackals of their prey, and the old chief stood calmly by, finally escorting the party to their canoe. All that night and the following they toiled up the stream, resting during the day, bearing the roar of the lion occasionally, and often startled by the plop of the alligators, as they slid off the bank into the water. The afternoon of the third day only, the camp at Gorongoza was reached, their numbers reduced by one.