The Ruined Cities of Zululand. Hugh Mulleneux Walmsley

Nyamonga mountain range called Gorongoza. It was a pleasant spot, and here they determined to rest a while. Several streams of bright, clear, cold water burst from the mountains, and, after wandering about for some distance, threw themselves into a river, which ran away towards the sea. Forests of the cedar-trees clothed the mountain-sides, and to these Wyzinski pointed triumphantly, asserting that they must now be close to the ruins, “There they are,” would he say; “and though there may exist a marked difference between them and the far-famed cedar of Lebanon, though they may have degenerated since the days when Pharaoh Necho’s seamen lived under their shade, yet in those cedar groves lie the fallen ruins of the old cities of Zulu land, and there is enough timber to supply the world.”

      “I wonder what we should do without the custard-apples?” said Hughes, the evening of the day when they arrived at Gorongoza.

      “But why call it custard-apple, Hughes?”

      “Because it is exactly like the custard-apple of the Madras Presidency, black, rough, and repulsive-looking outside, and a white, delicious custard inside, cool as if iced. It grows plentifully, like blackberries, up-country there.”

      “Well, I almost prefer the mobala fruit. Under the tropical sun, which, by the way, has tanned you to a mahogany colour, Hughes, it reminds one of the strawberries of England. I shall open a campaign against the wild duck. There seems lots of them.”

      “Here comes the Matabele chief; what has he got? Eggs, ducks’ eggs, as I am a sinner. Won’t that be a treat after weeks of venison diet?”

      The chief gravely stalked up to the two, and placing his eggs on the ground, squatted down, and looking the missionary full in the face, pointed down the course of the river, merely uttering the word “Sofala,” then changing the direction of his finger, pointed to the north-west, letting fall the dreaded word, “Tetsé.”

      The two Europeans looked at each other. A volume could not have better expressed his meaning. Down the stream lay the ruins which had been formerly mentioned. Right in their onward path was the dreaded tetse-fly, sure death to cattle.

      “Let us hold a council of war, Wyzinski,” said Hughes, after the two had looked at each other in dead silence. “Here, Luji, come here. We are going to have a palaver.”

      “Masheesh, must we send back the waggon?”

      The Matabele chief spoke volubly, frequently using the word “Tati,” and then pointing to the river which was running near them, calling it sometimes the Sabe, sometimes the Ouro.

      “Do you hear?” asked Wyzinski, eagerly. “The Thati and the Ramaquotan rivers run into the Limpopo, and this river he calls the Ouro, or golden river.”

      “Who owns the land, Luji?” asked Hughes.

      “Mozelkatse once owned it, master. Now it is the country of Machin, the Batonga, and the Banyai.”

      “Can Masheesh procure a canoe? and can we go down the river?” were the next questions.

      Both were answered satisfactorily. The Batonga were a friendly people, like the Bechuanas, and feared the Matabele Kaffirs, whose chief, Mozelkatse, had more than once punished them; and after a long talk, it was determined to send back the waggons and horses to the nearest mission, that at Santa Lucia Bay, and go down the river to the sea, before breaking up the camp at Gorongoza.

      “It is hard to send back our waggon,” exclaimed Hughes, during a pause in the work of packing.

      “We should but have to leave it and all it contains on the way, if we met with the tetse-fly. Its sting is sure death to cattle.”

      “And does it harm man?” inquired Hughes.

      “Singular to say it does not and I do not believe in its existence so near this coast-line; still it’s no use running the risk.”

      “We then resolve to strike the Zambesi, somewhere near Tête or Senna?”

      “Yes, passing through the kingdom of this same chief, Machin, who seems to be almost a rival to Mozelkatse.”

      It was with feelings of great regret the two saw the waggon with its great tilt, lumbering away an hour or two before sunset, under the charge of the missionary’s men, and bound for the station of Saint Lucia Bay,—it had been their home so long, that the cattle and horses seemed to them as friends. It was hard to part with them. The ground was strewed with packages, which were to be made up in the most commodious form for carrying, and the party was reduced to its original number of seven, with the addition of the Matabele and the two Europeans. A smaller tent had been fashioned by Noti and Luji, out of some spare canvas, easily carried, and it was now pitched by the river side, under the thick shade of a group of trees. Just as the last rays of the sun were gilding the river with gold, making it, indeed, look like the Gold River, Masheesh dropped down it in a canoe, and sunrise saw them on their way to Sofala. The crew of the boat consisted of the missionary, Captain Hughes, Masheesh, and the powerful Kaffir, Noti; Luji being left in charge of the camp at Gorongoza. Floating down the river in a comfortable canoe, between banks whose verdure was most luxuriant, was a pleasant change after the days of toilsome march. The palmyra, the wild date, mohanno, mowanna, and many other tropical trees grew in rich luxuriance, while the thick tangled undergrowth, mixed up with a host of creeping cane-like plants, rendered it impossible to penetrate the forest-land. Long reeds of various kinds hung over the banks, and beautiful water-lilies of gigantic size floated on the water. Wherever a break occurred among the trees, grew grass, or fields of wild maize or wild cotton were to be seen, and now and then the water antelope would dash into the stream and swim across. The party trusted to their rifles for food, and one of these antelopes coming well within range, Wyzinski fired, wounding the animal severely just as he reached the shore. The canoe dashed on to overtake it, which would easily have been done, for the deer was unable to climb the steep bank, and twice failed in the attempt, falling back into the water, when a huge alligator rose, showing his long shovel-shaped snout above the river. A ball struck the alligator, but without penetrating its mail. The deer struggled wildly for a moment, several other dark log-like forms showed on the bank, and the antelope disappeared, the water bubbling crimson for a moment; the next the canoe moved gently over the reddened river, and all was still.

      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.