The Ruined Cities of Zululand Part 17

The little tent was struck, the knapsacks strapped on, and their rifles at the trail, both moved rapidly away. But a deep cut they found ran between them and the Portuguese fort. It was filled with heavy timber and luxuriant undergrowth. Night came on, and there was no moon, so that the direction of the stream was soon lost, and they were brought to a stand still.

"Let us halt here," said Wyzinski, as they pushed their way through a clump of mimosa, and gained a small clearing, hemmed in on every side by the forest.

"We can reach Senna by early morning, and I am half dead with hunger."

A fire was lit, some strips of venison cut from an eland killed the previous day, roasted on the embers, and they made a hearty meal.

"It will be a relief to me to see the inside of the fort, Hughes," said Wyzinski. "I mis...o...b.. those Amatongas."

"They have done better by us than your favourite Matabele. I never thought Masheesh would have left us thus. If you will take the first turn, I'll have a sleep," replied Hughes.

"Agreed," returned the missionary, as his comrade placing his knapsack under his head, threw himself under a low bush, and was soon sleeping heavily. Hours went by, and still the missionary, with his rifle thrown across his knee, sat by the fire. He rose from time to time to collect and heap on it the dried branches. Once he heard distinctly above the noises incidental to an African night in the wilderness, the splintering of wood. He was in the act of throwing an armful of dry branches on the blaze. Stooping, he seized his rifle, and was just about to wake his companion, when the noise ceased. Stepping up to where the soldier lay, he looked at him. The starlight shone over the bronzed and travel-worn face. The cap had fallen off, and the long locks of dark hair touched the ground. "It would be a pity to wake him," muttered the missionary.

"I am not tired; the presentiment of evil is upon me, and I could not sleep even if I tried."

Turning, he again squatted down by the fire, the c.o.c.ked rifle over his knee. Once, more than an hour after, the same sound, like to the breaking of wood, reached his ear.

"It may be some heavy animal feeding," he thought, "and my fears be groundless; the darkness of the night, the loneliness and fatigue, have unnerved me."

Soon his thoughts were away in other lands, and with friends, some of whom had been long since dead. Then they returned to the ruined cities of this wild land. Had they any affinity to those found in Mexico? he asked himself. No, they must be Egyptian.

Suddenly a wild shout burst on his ear, a crashing blow, a whizzing in the ears, and all was darkness. The missionary lay stretched beside the embers of the fire.

How long he remained insensible on the ground Wyzinski never knew, but the grey dawn was just breaking as he struggled back to consciousness, to find his arms tightly and painfully bound behind his back, his head splitting with pain, while the clearing seemed filled with the dark forms of the Amatongas, seated in a circle, and evidently debating on their prisoner's fate. As he lay there on his back, barely able to turn his head, his open eyes gazing upwards at the stars, whose feeble light was just paling before the first grey streaks of dawn, a black ma.s.s intervened between him and the blue sky. It was a woman's head, the long hair told him this much, but the face was that of a demon; the beadlike eyes which peered into his flashing with malicious hatred; the thick lips parted, showing the yellow teeth clenched with pa.s.sion; the flat nostrils distended with rage, and the hair, matted with grease and dirt, sweeping his face as she bent over him.

It was a face he knew, for it was that of the dead chief's wife; and as the missionary closed his eyes to shut out the horrid vision, the hag, seeing he had again become conscious, uttered a piercing yell, and dashed into the middle of the council ring, chattering in a shrill and parrot-like voice. The missionary's eyes remained closed, for he felt his position was hopeless, and what at this moment grieved him more was, that by his negligent watch he had sacrificed his friend. If he had been struck down and made prisoner with his rifle in his hand and wide awake, what chance was there for the sleeping soldier? He knew he should, after the fashion of this tribe, be tortured; he prayed for firmness to meet his doom, but he thought with agony of what had been his comrade's fate during the hours he himself lay insensible and apparently dead.

A rude stroke from the sharp point of an Amatonga spear roused him, and in obedience to the command he endeavoured to struggle to his feet.

Unable to effect this, two of his captors roughly seized him, dragging him up. The dawn was just lighting up the scene, as he glanced round.

There lay the embers of the fire scattered about the clearing; there lay the soldier's knapsack, and there, near it, with an ox hide thrown over it, something which took, under its coverings, the shape of a human form. There was no mistaking it.

The missionary's eyes filled with tears, and a convulsive sob heaved his breast, as he looked on all that was left of the man who, in his dead sleep, had trusted to his friend's vigilance.

The Amatongas seemed to have no time to lose, for hardly giving their prisoner s.p.a.ce to realise what was pa.s.sing around, they hurried him along through the bush, retracing their path until the whole group reached the foot of the Baramuana hill, where the distribution of the rifles had taken place the day before.

"My presentiment of evil did not deceive me," muttered Wyzinski; "fool, triple fool as I was not to profit by it, and yonder," thought he, as his eyes followed the course of the river, and the brick walls of the fort met his gaze, just tipped by the first rays of the sun, "yonder lay safety."

Grinning, laughing, and chattering, the circle of Amatonga braves drew round him. Their prisoner was thrown to the ground and his feet bound with the palmyra rope; the woman fiend, her pa.s.sion lending her strength, hauling at one end of the rough cord until it literally cut into the flesh. A stake was driven into the ground at the foot of the rock, and then the missionary knew his doom was, like Luji's, death by fire. Next the whole band dispersed, going into the forest, and returning by twos and threes, laden with brush as dry as tinder.

Quickly the semicircle of boughs and long gra.s.s grew round the stake, while close to the prisoner's head sat the fiend-like woman, spitting out her rage, heaping imprecations on his head, and occasionally breaking out into a slow chant or death song.

The missionary's eyes were again closed; his lips were moving in prayer.

He was asking for strength to bear his fearful death, as a man should whose negligence has brought evil not only on himself, but on others.

The belt of forest trees ran close to the spot where he lay, and while he prayed a dark face put aside cautiously the cl.u.s.ters of convolvuli which formed a flowery screen among the trees, as two black piercing eyes gazed out from among the flowers, seemed to take note of the scene, and then disappeared.

And now four of the Amatongas emerged from the bush, bearing the nameless something, covered up with skins, but yet showing the outlines of the human form. Wyzinski shuddered as he opened his eyes and saw it.

The pile of brushwood grew higher and higher, and the missionary felt himself rudely dragged along the ground, and fastened to the stake. The palmyra rope which cut into his flesh was removed, and his feet firmly tied apart to two small wooden pins driven into the ground. The hideous looking woman, who had been dancing and singing round him, waving her lean arms, and clashing together her long yellow teeth, now sat down right opposite the victim, her eyes intently fixed on his, to enjoy his agony. The last armful of brush was tossed upon the heap, fire was procured, and a long twisted wisp of dry gra.s.s lighted, and placed in the widow's hands.

Chanting out a monotonous song, the woman rose and came on. She reached the wall of dry brush, she waved the wisp of flame in her victim's face, scorching his hair and whiskers; then, with a yell of vengeance, stooped to kindle the fire, when a flash of light seemed to quiver through the sunshine, and she fell forward, pierced through the heart by an a.s.segai, the torch falling from her dying hands, kindling the dry gra.s.s and brushwood.

In an instant the missionary was surrounded by a semicircle of flame, the reports of rifles rang in his ears, a loud shout of "Boarders, away!" came from among the trees, as half a dozen Portuguese soldiers, led on by Hughes, the Matabele chief, Masheesh, and Captain Weber of the "Halcyon," dashed across the open, scattered the burning brush right and left, cut away his bonds, and dragged the half-choked missionary free of the flames.

Three of the Amatongas had fallen by the first discharge, and without halting to reload, the Portuguese charged with the bayonet, led by an old seaman, whose scar-seamed face told of some recent fight. It was Captain Mason, late of the "Argonaut." The savages, wholly surprised, at once fled, but halting as they reached the belt of forest, threw their a.s.segais. "Forward, my lads; no quarter for the accursed scoundrels!" shouted the excited Mason. "For--," the word was never spoken, for an a.s.segai struck him in the left eye, piercing to the brain. He fell heavily on his face, his clubbed rifle tumbling to the ground; a deep groan, one or two spasmodic struggles, and the captain of the "Argonaut" was no more, the whole band of savages having disappeared in the bush.

Volume 1, Chapter XV.

LOTUS-EATING ON THE ZAMBESI.

Startled from his deep sleep by the shout of the Amatongas, as they leaped into the clearing, the soldier had sprung to his feet, and possessing the faculty of instantly recovering his senses, when suddenly awoke, he at once comprehended his situation. Shouting to Wyzinski to join him, and whirling round his head the heavy knapsack held by the straps, he struck down the foremost savage: a second shared the same fate, but the leather straps broke with the blow. Springing on the third, Hughes grappled with his adversary, clutching the chief Matumba, for it was no other, fiercely by the throat--but he had met his match.

Matumba, short of stature, was yet a powerful man, and though partially stunned by the fall, and his heavy k.n.o.bstick having dropped from his hands, he struggled manfully for life. The fire had been trampled out, the light of the stars was very feeble, and the two rolled over and over in the death struggle, none daring to meddle with them. A dozen dark, naked forms moved round them; the long knives gleamed in the starlight, but the Amatongas could not strike, so rapid were the movements of the two struggling men. At last, Matumba's efforts seemed to grow weaker, the deadly grip tightened on his throat, and as he lay under him, Hughes buried his short dagger in the Amatonga's side. Casting the body from him, with a superhuman effort, and without pausing for a moment, the soldier dashed through the circle, the savages striking at him with their knives.

Seizing his rifle as he fled, with one sweeping blow he drove back the foremost of his pursuers, and shouting to Wyzinski to follow, plunged into the bush. The ground ascended, the trees grew farther apart; he was on the verge of the forest; but one of the long knives had wounded him deeply in the left shoulder, and he was growing faint from loss of blood. Pausing to listen, he distinctly heard the crashing of the underwood. Was it Wyzinski following him? Listening attentively, he could distinguish the same noise to the right and left, and he then knew that the Amatongas, paralysed and astonished as they had been at first by the desperate nature of the resistance, had spread themselves out, and were bringing up the whole country before them on three sides, just as they did when hunting antelope. On the fourth ran the Zambesi.

Moving rapidly forward, and determined to trust to the river rather than to the Amatongas, Hughes came to a nullah. Its banks were covered with brush, and the ma.s.ses of convolvuli almost hid it in places. A sudden thought struck him. Jumping in, he followed its course until he came to a spot completely shut in by creepers and shrubs, then placing his rifle near him, he lay down. Minutes pa.s.sed, the breaking of the bushes came near him; the cries of the savages calling to each other seemed close to; the head of an a.s.segai was thrust into the ma.s.s of verdure which formed his only protection, striking the rock within an inch of him; the noises in the brush, and the cries pa.s.sed on. Grey daylight came streaming between the leaves, the purple convolvuli opened their flowers, and the parrots and wild pigeons began to awake among the branches.

The wound in his shoulder had stopped bleeding, but he felt faint and nearly unable to move. Cautiously raising his head above the level of the bank, he glanced around. "All seems quiet. If I could only reach the river," he muttered. "My mouth is dry and parched with thirst."

Slowly and painfully he extricated himself from the bed of the nullah, and then, his rifle on his shoulder, followed its course.

It did indeed revive him, as he scooped up the waters of the Zambesi with his hands, and then, taking off his clothes, bathed the wounded shoulder in the cool river. What had become of his comrade was now his thought, and the idea of not ascertaining his fate for fear of personal consequences, never occurred to him. The sun would soon be up, the bees were just humming along the river banks, the patches of forest-land on the plain beyond the river looked black, in the grey dawn, and the stars were fast disappearing. He would take his way back to the clearing slowly, and cautiously. Just as he had stepped on the bank reinvigorated and refreshed, a noise struck his ears.

Turning towards the river, he leaned on his rifle, listening attentively. It was a fine broad stream the Zambesi, even here, before the Shire river pours its waters into it far below the fort of Senna; and as he looked down it, he again caught the noise distinctly.

"It is the steady pull of oars in the rowlocks," he said, speaking aloud, unconsciously. "I cannot be mistaken. Perhaps I may find help."

Concealing himself behind a bush, he waited. The sounds, whatever they were, became more and more distinct, and soon, slowly pulling against the stream, a boat drew clear of the bend of the river. Slowly it surged onward meeting the stream, urged on by the strokes of six rowers, the Portuguese flag streaming out from the stern, and a small carronade mounted in her bows. In the stern sheets sat a tall, upright figure, the tiller ropes in either hand, dressed in a monkey jacket, pilot cloth trousers, and a sailor's cap. His long white hair streamed in the wind, and by his side a nearly naked savage. "Could he be mistaken? No,"

said Hughes again, speaking aloud, "it is Captain Weber, and Masheesh has not deserted us. He was bringing aid, alas too late."

"Boat ahoy!" shouted Hughes, as he stepped from behind the bush, waving his rifle in the air.

A loud shout came over the river; the next moment the skipper's left hand gave the yawl's bows a broad sheer towards the bank, and Masheesh and the old sailor were by his side. His tale was soon told. Not a moment was lost, and though they found the clearing empty, the spoor of the Amatonga was plain. Masheesh was sent forward to reconnoitre, the Portuguese soldiers were landed, and the result is known.

"And what is that over yonder, which I took for you?" asked the missionary.

Hughes rose from the spot where he had been sitting, the missionary's hand in his; he stooped over the heap, and threw the skin aside.

"It is Matumba," he said; "look at the mark of my grip on his throat, and the dark blood-stain on his side. He gave me trouble enough," he continued, as he threw back the skins over the dead savage; "and his face with its starting eyeb.a.l.l.s, and tongue hanging out of his mouth, is no pleasant sight. He was a treacherous savage, but died the death of a brave."

"I don't see," said Weber, who now joined them, "that there is any reason why we should not pitch the bodies of these villains into the fire and have them consumed. It is more ship-shape than leaving them to the jackals."

The thing was no sooner said than done, and the party made short work of it. The body of the captain of the "Argonaut" was carried down to the boat, and covered with the Portuguese ensign. Those of the Amatonga placed on the fire, which was burning fiercely.

"One, two, three, and yo heave ho!" shouted the sailors, as Matumba's corpse was launched into the air, and fell with a heavy thud into the middle of the flames, sending up a shower of sparks. Fresh brush was heaped over it, and the whole was left burning.

"Poor Mason," said Captain Weber, as the party moved off, "he never got over the loss of his ship. Of the whole crew, only yonder man now remains."

"But what were you doing here on the Zambesi, Captain Weber, and how came you in company with Masheesh?"

The Matabele had been in great force, during the short engagement, and now with his long a.s.segai dyed red with blood, stalked solemnly beside the missionary, who walked with great difficulty.

"It is easily explained. You will remember when you went over the 'Halcyon's' side, I told you I had but a few months of my three years'