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 knobstick 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 masses 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 passed, the breaking of the bushes came near him; the cries of the savages calling to each other seemed close to; the head of an assegai was thrust into the mass of verdure which formed his only protection, striking the rock within an inch of him; the noises in the brush, and the cries passed 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 eyeballs, 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 assegai 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’ cruise, Captain Hughes,” replied the seaman, “and that I was bound for Quillimane.”“Perfectly, and that you would give me a passage to England if I needed it,” answered Hughes. “I shall be glad to accept it, if you can land me at Delagoa Bay, Port Natal, or the Cape; for we two have nothing save our knapsacks and rifles now.”“Avast there! Hear my tale first. It appears a special envoy has been sent out by the King of Portugal to report on this colony on the Zambesi. With his staff he has been for the last three months at Tété. The ‘Halcyon’ has been taken up for his passage home, and I am on my way to sign articles with Don Francisco di Maxara.”“But that does not account for my seeing Masheesh at your side in yonder boat?” remarked Hughes.“The Governor of the fort yonder was atTétéwith his Excellency when the Matabele arrived, and told his tale. The Portuguese would not get under way without orders. Reaching Senna late last night, I heard of the affair, knew it must be you, and determined to send poor Mason on to sign articles, and guided by Masheesh to go to your help.”A cordial grasp of the hand followed this.“Why, you are burning with fever, my lad, and more fit for the sick bay than the jungle,” said Weber, looking into the soldier’s face.“Shove off; give way, my lads; his Excellency must wait a wee,” continued the seaman, as the boat sheered down stream, and the men bending to their oars, the stout craft dashed down the Zambesi, heading for Senna.Don Isidore Mujao, the commandant, met them at the landing place, greatly surprised at their speedy return, and still more so when he saw the use his Portuguese flag had been put to. About forty years of age; tall, dark complexioned, and sedate in manner, he welcomed the new comers, at the same time giving his orders to the men. Taking up the body of the late captain of the burned ship, six soldiers conveyed it to the little chapel, and during the pause, the new comers looked around them.The fort was built of brick, and was in a very dilapidated condition. Situated on the right bank of the Zambesi, the river rolled its waters under the walls, and seemed a large stream, dotted with reed-covered islands.“Captain Weber, you can spare your men a toilsome row; his Excellency will arrive either this night or to-morrow from Tétéen routefor Quillimane. Gentlemen,” continued the Portuguese, “you are welcome; you will meet with scant hospitality here, but we will do our best.”Don Mujao took off his black broad-brimmed hat as he spoke, bowing low.“Ay, ay, then I have not much time to lose. I say, Don,” exclaimed the sailor, “this is the Senhor Wyzinski, a missionary, on the loose, and whom we found in a fair way to make a grill for Davy Jones; look at his singed hair and whiskers; and this is an old friend, Captain Hughes, 150th Regiment, who looks half dead with fever.”Again the formal Portuguese raised his hat, bowing first to one and then to the other.“Roderigues,” he said, beckoning to a soldier who stood near, “show the Senhors to the only room we can give them. Once more I ask your consideration for our shortcomings, Senhors.”“Come, make sail!” cried the skipper; “don’t be all day backing and filling here.”The gate opened, then swung to again, as passing the Governor, who stood with his hat raised from his head, and preceded by the very questionable individual who had been called Roderigues, Hughes and the missionary, literally worn out with fatigue and excitement, the one wounded in the shoulder, the other his face blistered with burns, and hardly able to walk from the effects of the tightly bound palmyra rope, took their way up a narrow, winding staircase, turning out of a landing into a large room, lighted by two barred windows looking over the Zambesi and the plain beyond.Two rude stretcher beds placed at opposite sides of the room, two large horse buckets, evidently intended for washing purposes, a coil of palmyra rope, to haul up water from the river below, and a couple of rude chairs, formed the furniture. The roof of the chamber was vaulted, and the floor was of red brick. Such was the room into which the soldier ushered the two travel-worn men, and to them it seemed a palace. Standing at attention as they passed, the Portuguese spoke some words in his own tongue, then closed the door with a clang. Placing their rifles against the wall, and throwing down the knapsacks which had been recovered, the missionary’s first act was to push the rude bolt, and offer up fervent thanks for the protection vouchsafed them during their late danger.The water-buckets were put into use, the knapsacks rummaged, and then the two sat gazing in silence over the river.“We must manage a passage with our friend, Weber,” said Wyzinski, at last.“I don’t know how it is, I don’t feel any interest in anything,” languidly replied Hughes. “These shivering fits upset me. The fever has its hold of me.”“I wonder whether they have any quinine? What a miserable, tumble-down set of wretched hovels these Portuguese have here. A town of thirty houses.”“The country looks fertile, and the colony should prosper,” languidly returned Hughes, shivering heavily from head to foot, and his face flushing as he spoke. “Those are curiously-shaped sugar-loaf hills, the river flowing between us and them. The thick forest stretches beyond, and how beautiful the distant mountains seem.”“Those are the hills of the Morumbala range, but what interests me more is yonder boat, swinging to her anchor. She is of English build, has a small cabin, and pulls eight oars. I should like to drop down the Zambesi to-morrow. There must be traders at Quillimane, sailing to Natal or the Cape.”Here a prolonged, and painful shivering fit took possession of Hughes, gradually and rapidly increasing to such an extent, as soon to incapacitate him even from talking. That night the pulse was beating at a fearful pace, the temples throbbed nearly to bursting, and the terrible shivering fits shook his frame. The following day the brain was affected and the sufferer went once more through the scenes he had lately acted. The missionary dragged his cot to that of his sick comrade, and Captain Weber shared his watch, but the resources of the fort were very small, and but for his strong constitution the chances were against recovery.The morning of the third day, there was a great bustle within the walls of the ruined fort. Weber came to say good bye. The Portuguese envoy had arrived from Tété, the agreement had been made, and the captain of the merchantman was to drop down the river that morning to finish his preparations.Hughes was wandering, and did not know him. “It shall go hard but that you shall have your passage in the ‘Halcyon,’ if he can bear it,” said the skipper, the tears standing in his eyes as he pressed the missionary’s hand. “An hour of the fresh breeze of the Indian ocean would do more to cooper up yonder craft than all the rubbish in the world. He’s on his beam ends now, that’s sure; but may be he’ll be all a-tanto soon.”A knock at the door, and Don Francisco Maxara entered; an elderly, grey-haired man, tall in stature, and stately in bearing.“I cannot say it is a pleasure, Senhor,” began the old noble, as he bowed to the missionary, and made room for the merchant captain to pass, “but at all events it is a duty to place myself and all I have at your command.”Boiling restlessly from side to side, his handsome features, bronzed by the sun, now flushed with fever, Hughes was unconscious of their presence. He was with his corps cheering on his men as he had cheered them on the plains of Chillianwallah, the day the gallant 10th Regiment melted away before the masked fire from the Sikh artillery, when gliding through the open door and passing her arm through her father’s, Dona Isabel de Maxara looked down on him.Tall and graceful in figure, the girl’s face, was of that beautiful clear brown tint, found only in the sunny south, but one of the peculiarities which distinguished her was the network of blue veins, tracing themselves under the transparent olive of the skin; the eyes were large and intensely brilliant, shaded now by the long black lashes, which, with the slightly arched and beautifully pencilled eyebrow, told of Moorish blood. The mouth was small and beautifully cut, the lips parted now and showing the white teeth; and if there was a fault in the features, it was that the forehead, with all its lace-work of blue veins glancing under the clear olive skin, was too high and massive for a female face. The hair was brushed backwards, fastened behind by a large comb, tipped with gold, from which hung the long mantilla of Spain.The sick man saw nothing of all this, he was busy among the guns at Chillianwallah.“How long, Senhor,” said the girl, looking up at the missionary, and the large eyes filling as she did so with tears, which rolled one by one unheeded down her cheeks,—“how long has your friend been ill?”“This is the third day, mademoiselle,” replied he, speaking in French, both father and daughter having used that language. “Have you any quinine, Senhor?” he continued, addressing the father.“Yes, at your service; but not having had any before, what have you been using?” replied the noble, taking the sick man’s hands, and feeling his pulse.“A drink made out of the kumbunga plant. It has cured me more than once.”“Wait,” cried the girl, eager to be of use. “I will return in a moment,” and she flew out of the room, showing as she moved the beautiful foot and ankle peculiar to the Portuguese.The old noble shook his head as he let the arm he held fall on the bed-clothes.“There, use that at once,” said the breathless girl, as she returned with a small bottle filled with quinine. “And as soon as you can, get away from this terrible place.”“We will leave now, my daughter; we are but in the way. Later on we may be useful. Command me, Senhor,” added the Portuguese; “whatever I have is at your service. I pray you do not spare me or mine.”With a stately wave of the hand, as though he were quitting a palace, instead of a poor barrack-room in a dilapidated fort, the nobleman passed on.“You will let me know,” said Isabel, pausing before she joined her father, and raising the large black eyes to the missionary’s face—“you will let me know how your poor friend is.” And with one more glance round the room, and at the wretched bed, she passed out.Wyzinski stood looking at her. It seemed like a dream; but then there was the stoppered bottle of white powder in his hand to prove the reality. All that day, all that night, the missionary watched by the bedside. Towards midnight a heavy thunderstorm passed over the plains watered by the Zambesi. The air seemed blue with the forked lightning; the thunder rattled and roared over the fort, but the morning dawned calm and beautiful, and a cool breeze blew in at the open windows, bringing with it the sweet breath of the tamarind flowers. The quinine, too, had done its work; and the crisis which in the dreadful tertian fever of the Zambesi always occurs on the third day, had passed over favourably. These storms are of frequent occurrence in the land through which the Zambesi rolls its waters, and scarcely a week goes by without the thunder making itself heard round the dilapidated walls of Senna. Another of these periodical storms had just occurred, sweeping over the land, accompanied by torrents of rain, cooling the air, and refreshing the parched-up plains on the banks of the Zambesi. The river was high in consequence, rolling down branches and trees and quantities of driftwood past the brick walls of the crumbling fort. It has already been said that several small islands intersect the course of the river; and near one of these, not a stone’s throw from the water-gate, two boats were moored, swinging to the stream. The one a large European-looking pinnace—though really built on the Zambesi after an English model—possessed a covered cabin aft, and was capable of holding some twenty people. The other was of smaller and lighter mould. From the island came the sounds of laughter and conversation.Under the trellised creepers, through which the rays of the afternoon sun were shining, sat a party of Europeans. The water was bubbling up in a stone basin; the purple grapes were hanging in rich clusters from the vines; and there, doing the honours of the table with a gentle grace which showed a practised ease and knowledge of the world, sat Dona Isabel Maxara. Near her, half sitting, half reclining on some cushions, Captain Hughes seemed lost in contemplation of the fair girl. Still very weak, and much pulled down by the short but sharp attack of the deadly tertian, he had got it into his head that the quinine had saved his life; and perhaps it was not a very unpleasant thing to be beholden for life to so fair a physician. And so he gazed on the tall, graceful, and beautifully-turned figure, the head carried with that dignified swan-like movement peculiar to Spain and Portugal, the long black lace veil now thrown back and floating behind. The clear olive complexion was well set off by the crimson lips of the well-cut mouth, and the large coal black eyes, with their long lashes, well matched by the luxuriant tresses of jetty hair. As she rose to carry the small cup of coffee to the invalid, he certainly thought the life it pleased him to consider she had saved, could not have a better use than devotion to her; and when the fair Isabel stooped over the young soldier, and one long tress, of the raven hair touched his hand, raised to receive the cap, the rosy flush flew up into a cheek once browned by exposure, but paled now by illness.At a table close by, the Portuguese envoy, Dom Francisco Maxara, sat playing at chess with the Commandant of Senna; the two, wholly absorbed in their game, exchanging a word only at intervals. The missionary was unpacking, showing, and repacking, the various skins and small animals he had managed to secure. The birds were singing in the bushes round about, and above all came the buzz of insect life, and the ceaseless roll of the broad Zambesi.The soldier lay back on the cushions sipping his coffee, his eyes half shut, a pleasant feeling of indolence enervating his frame, as he gazed. “She is very lovely,” he muttered; “and here am I, a captain of a marching regiment, allowing myself to fall in love with the daughter of a Portuguese grandee, whom I shall probably never see again.”“And this,” continued Wyzinski, who seemed to have monopolised the conversation, “is it not a beautiful skin? Do you remember, Hughes, shooting this wild cat in the tree the morning of that terrible day among the Amatongas?”“Indeed,” replied the other, “I am little likely to forget it. I shall always think it was the excitement, and the prostration consequent on the hunt, which so nearly consigned me to an African grave.”“Tell me the tale,” cried Isabel. “I long to hear your adventures among the tribes of the interior. It seems so strange for us to meet here on this great African river.”The conversation was carried on in French; and the soldier told of their travels; told how the baboon had first been found; how it had lived in the camp, and how it had died. The chess-players were disturbed by the silvery peals of laughter which rang round them as Hughes related, with some humour, the incident of the powder-flask; and Dona Isabel’s dark eyes had been fixed for a long time on the speaker’s face ere the tale was finished, and the sun sank beneath the horizon, the stars peeping out, while the fire-flies came floating around, and the cool puffs of the sea breeze swept across the river.“Sing for us, Isabel,” said Dom Francisco, as he checkmated his antagonist, at the same time rising and making him a stately bow.Dona Isabel took her guitar, and the sweet tones of her voice rang out among the trellised vines and over the broad river, dying away on the plains beyond, where the howl of the jackal was just making itself heard.“You will give me my revenge, Senhor Maxara,” asked the Commandant.“Nay, Dom Isidore, not possible—at least, until you do me the high honour of becoming my guest in our own land. We must leave to-morrow evening.”“And the Dona Isabel,” asked Mujaio. “Is she, too, in such a hurry to leave Senna?”“The Dona Isabel must abide by her father’s decision,” she replied; “but she may have a word to say to Dom Maxara on the subject.”Rising, Isabel took her father’s arm, and leading him towards the river side, seemed to urge something, to which he would not consent.“Impossible, Isabel; wholly so. The brig is an English trader, bound for the Cape, and takes us only as passengers. Her captain cannot delay beyond the stipulated day; but come, we will do our best.”“My daughter, Dom Isidore has been urging our stay at Senna for some days longer, but I am forced to say nay. You, gentlemen,” continued the ceremonious old noble, bowing first to the missionary, then to the soldier, “seek to return to the Cape; will you so far honour my daughter and myself as to accompany us?”The soldier’s face flushed with pleasure. It was just what he could have desired. Wyzinski courteously declined, urging that they must wait until the “Alert” gun brig should touch at Quillimane, as they were without funds, and unable to pay their passage to the Cape.A stately wave of the hand from Dom Francisco followed this matter-of-fact declaration, which wounded the soldier to the quick. He almost hated Wyzinski, and yet the determination had been come to that morning, on hearing of the advent of the “Alert.”“The brig ‘Halcyon’ waits us at Quillimane,” persisted the noble. “She is chartered by my government to convey me, its envoy, to the Cape, and can take no passengers, but is bound to receive my suite and guests. Will the senhors honour us by becoming the latter?”“And you may, indeed, help us,” interposed Isabel, fixing her dark eyes on the missionary. “What shall we do on board an English brig, with no one to understand us. But will not the senhor be too weak if we leave to-morrow?”As she stood there, with the stars shining upon her, and the fire-flies playing like an aureole round her head, it occurred to Hughes that he was strong enough to follow her anywhere. The missionary looked at him inquiringly.“Every day will bring me strength,” he replied; “and I shall be very glad to get to the sea once more. Senhor Dom Francisco Maxara, I accept your kind and generous offer, with many thanks.”“And I also,” joined in Wyzinski.“Then, Senhor Commandant, we will start to-morrow evening. I shall leave my staff here until the surveys, estimates, and plans be completed, and you shall have your revenge when you come home.”“All shall be in readiness,” replied Mujaio, as he took a whistle from his neck, and sounded a shrill call. A boat shot across the stream from the fort; the noise of the oars straining in the rowlocks was heard, and the bowman jumped ashore, holding the boat’s painter in his hand.“Good-night, gentlemen,” said the noble. “I shall have much business to transact with the Senhor Commandant to-morrow, and may not see you. My daughter, Dona Isabel, will hope to have that pleasure in my absence. The smaller of the two boats allotted us you will look upon as yours.”Moving towards the river, his daughter on his arm, the stately Portuguese took off his broad-brimmed hat most courteously. Senhor Mujaio followed, having first handed the missionary the silver whistle.“When you require the boat you have only to use this. Good-night, gentlemen.”A dark spot shot off from the bank into the starlight; the noise of the oars was again heard, and then the sound of a merry Portuguese air, in the chorus of which even the boatmen joined, though the soft, silvery female voice told who was the principal singer. Then the dark shadow thrown across the river received the boat, and all was silent. With a sigh of gratification, Hughes threw himself back on the cushions.“Well, there is our future provided for,” he ejaculated. “Who would have thought of meeting such a divine creature here, Wyzinski? Fancy such a jewel shut up in that crumbling old fort. Why, the Amatongas even could take it.”“There is a much more warlike tribe here to the north, named the Landeens, who have taken it more than once,” replied the missionary.“And might do so again,” mused the other, “this very night.”“Don’t you think you might utilise your light infantry education?” asked Wyzinski.“What do you mean?”“Why, I mean if you were to run away, as you did from the hippopotamus.”“What, run away from the Landeens?”“No, from the lady,” laughed Wyzinski; “I think it would be the wisest plan.”“Don’t be a fool, Wyzinski; I am not strong enough to bear chaffing.”“But quite strong enough to go down the stream—of course I don’t mean the stream of life, but of the Zambesi—with Dona Isabel de Maxara?”The captain of the gallant 150th did not reply, but fell into a musing mood. Some Portuguese cigarettes lay on the table near the chessmen. The night was cool; and it was pleasant, looking over the flowing river, and watching the twinkling lights flashing from the windows and embrasures of the fort. The cry of the jackal was heard from time to time; a distant splash told of the hippopotami; and then the moon rose, tinging the stream with its rays, and lighting up the islands on its bosom. The well-known conical hill of Baramuana became distinctly visible; and far away to the northward, the faint, ghostlike outline of the Morumbala range could with difficulty be traced; while the flat country round, closely covered with forest growth, looked like a dark blot in the moonlight. The lights twinkled and then went out in the fort; the noise in the wretched houses of Senna gradually ceasing.“And what are your intentions, Wyzinski, on your arrival at the Cape?” asked Hughes, after a long silence.“To organise a party; get the support of the English Government, if possible; but, whether or not, to return to the Amatonga, and by means of the ambition of their chief, Umhleswa, fully to explore the ruins now lying buried there. Will you join me?”“No, Wyzinski; I have had enough of African life. I long for Europe and its civilisation.”“Say for Portugal and its water-melons, and I shall understand you better.”“Nay,” answered the soldier, dreamily; “this fever has weakened me, and I have my regiment to think of. I must shake it off, or all hopes of advancement will be taken from me.”“You are quite right,” replied the missionary. “Concentrate your thoughts on that, and don’t think of the Dona Isabel; that haughty old noble would as soon dream of the sun for her bridegroom, as of a captain of the 150th.”The soldier sighed; and Wyzinski, using the whistle, the boat was soon once more at the island, and Senna, its fort, commandant, garrison, and guests, buried in deep sleep, even with the fear of the treacherous Landeens before their eyes.
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 knobstick 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 masses 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 passed, the breaking of the bushes came near him; the cries of the savages calling to each other seemed close to; the head of an assegai was thrust into the mass of verdure which formed his only protection, striking the rock within an inch of him; the noises in the brush, and the cries passed 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 eyeballs, 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 assegai 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’ cruise, Captain Hughes,” replied the seaman, “and that I was bound for Quillimane.”
“Perfectly, and that you would give me a passage to England if I needed it,” answered Hughes. “I shall be glad to accept it, if you can land me at Delagoa Bay, Port Natal, or the Cape; for we two have nothing save our knapsacks and rifles now.”
“Avast there! Hear my tale first. It appears a special envoy has been sent out by the King of Portugal to report on this colony on the Zambesi. With his staff he has been for the last three months at Tété. The ‘Halcyon’ has been taken up for his passage home, and I am on my way to sign articles with Don Francisco di Maxara.”
“But that does not account for my seeing Masheesh at your side in yonder boat?” remarked Hughes.
“The Governor of the fort yonder was atTétéwith his Excellency when the Matabele arrived, and told his tale. The Portuguese would not get under way without orders. Reaching Senna late last night, I heard of the affair, knew it must be you, and determined to send poor Mason on to sign articles, and guided by Masheesh to go to your help.”
A cordial grasp of the hand followed this.
“Why, you are burning with fever, my lad, and more fit for the sick bay than the jungle,” said Weber, looking into the soldier’s face.
“Shove off; give way, my lads; his Excellency must wait a wee,” continued the seaman, as the boat sheered down stream, and the men bending to their oars, the stout craft dashed down the Zambesi, heading for Senna.
Don Isidore Mujao, the commandant, met them at the landing place, greatly surprised at their speedy return, and still more so when he saw the use his Portuguese flag had been put to. About forty years of age; tall, dark complexioned, and sedate in manner, he welcomed the new comers, at the same time giving his orders to the men. Taking up the body of the late captain of the burned ship, six soldiers conveyed it to the little chapel, and during the pause, the new comers looked around them.
The fort was built of brick, and was in a very dilapidated condition. Situated on the right bank of the Zambesi, the river rolled its waters under the walls, and seemed a large stream, dotted with reed-covered islands.
“Captain Weber, you can spare your men a toilsome row; his Excellency will arrive either this night or to-morrow from Tétéen routefor Quillimane. Gentlemen,” continued the Portuguese, “you are welcome; you will meet with scant hospitality here, but we will do our best.”
Don Mujao took off his black broad-brimmed hat as he spoke, bowing low.
“Ay, ay, then I have not much time to lose. I say, Don,” exclaimed the sailor, “this is the Senhor Wyzinski, a missionary, on the loose, and whom we found in a fair way to make a grill for Davy Jones; look at his singed hair and whiskers; and this is an old friend, Captain Hughes, 150th Regiment, who looks half dead with fever.”
Again the formal Portuguese raised his hat, bowing first to one and then to the other.
“Roderigues,” he said, beckoning to a soldier who stood near, “show the Senhors to the only room we can give them. Once more I ask your consideration for our shortcomings, Senhors.”
“Come, make sail!” cried the skipper; “don’t be all day backing and filling here.”
The gate opened, then swung to again, as passing the Governor, who stood with his hat raised from his head, and preceded by the very questionable individual who had been called Roderigues, Hughes and the missionary, literally worn out with fatigue and excitement, the one wounded in the shoulder, the other his face blistered with burns, and hardly able to walk from the effects of the tightly bound palmyra rope, took their way up a narrow, winding staircase, turning out of a landing into a large room, lighted by two barred windows looking over the Zambesi and the plain beyond.
Two rude stretcher beds placed at opposite sides of the room, two large horse buckets, evidently intended for washing purposes, a coil of palmyra rope, to haul up water from the river below, and a couple of rude chairs, formed the furniture. The roof of the chamber was vaulted, and the floor was of red brick. Such was the room into which the soldier ushered the two travel-worn men, and to them it seemed a palace. Standing at attention as they passed, the Portuguese spoke some words in his own tongue, then closed the door with a clang. Placing their rifles against the wall, and throwing down the knapsacks which had been recovered, the missionary’s first act was to push the rude bolt, and offer up fervent thanks for the protection vouchsafed them during their late danger.
The water-buckets were put into use, the knapsacks rummaged, and then the two sat gazing in silence over the river.
“We must manage a passage with our friend, Weber,” said Wyzinski, at last.
“I don’t know how it is, I don’t feel any interest in anything,” languidly replied Hughes. “These shivering fits upset me. The fever has its hold of me.”
“I wonder whether they have any quinine? What a miserable, tumble-down set of wretched hovels these Portuguese have here. A town of thirty houses.”
“The country looks fertile, and the colony should prosper,” languidly returned Hughes, shivering heavily from head to foot, and his face flushing as he spoke. “Those are curiously-shaped sugar-loaf hills, the river flowing between us and them. The thick forest stretches beyond, and how beautiful the distant mountains seem.”
“Those are the hills of the Morumbala range, but what interests me more is yonder boat, swinging to her anchor. She is of English build, has a small cabin, and pulls eight oars. I should like to drop down the Zambesi to-morrow. There must be traders at Quillimane, sailing to Natal or the Cape.”
Here a prolonged, and painful shivering fit took possession of Hughes, gradually and rapidly increasing to such an extent, as soon to incapacitate him even from talking. That night the pulse was beating at a fearful pace, the temples throbbed nearly to bursting, and the terrible shivering fits shook his frame. The following day the brain was affected and the sufferer went once more through the scenes he had lately acted. The missionary dragged his cot to that of his sick comrade, and Captain Weber shared his watch, but the resources of the fort were very small, and but for his strong constitution the chances were against recovery.
The morning of the third day, there was a great bustle within the walls of the ruined fort. Weber came to say good bye. The Portuguese envoy had arrived from Tété, the agreement had been made, and the captain of the merchantman was to drop down the river that morning to finish his preparations.
Hughes was wandering, and did not know him. “It shall go hard but that you shall have your passage in the ‘Halcyon,’ if he can bear it,” said the skipper, the tears standing in his eyes as he pressed the missionary’s hand. “An hour of the fresh breeze of the Indian ocean would do more to cooper up yonder craft than all the rubbish in the world. He’s on his beam ends now, that’s sure; but may be he’ll be all a-tanto soon.”
A knock at the door, and Don Francisco Maxara entered; an elderly, grey-haired man, tall in stature, and stately in bearing.
“I cannot say it is a pleasure, Senhor,” began the old noble, as he bowed to the missionary, and made room for the merchant captain to pass, “but at all events it is a duty to place myself and all I have at your command.”
Boiling restlessly from side to side, his handsome features, bronzed by the sun, now flushed with fever, Hughes was unconscious of their presence. He was with his corps cheering on his men as he had cheered them on the plains of Chillianwallah, the day the gallant 10th Regiment melted away before the masked fire from the Sikh artillery, when gliding through the open door and passing her arm through her father’s, Dona Isabel de Maxara looked down on him.
Tall and graceful in figure, the girl’s face, was of that beautiful clear brown tint, found only in the sunny south, but one of the peculiarities which distinguished her was the network of blue veins, tracing themselves under the transparent olive of the skin; the eyes were large and intensely brilliant, shaded now by the long black lashes, which, with the slightly arched and beautifully pencilled eyebrow, told of Moorish blood. The mouth was small and beautifully cut, the lips parted now and showing the white teeth; and if there was a fault in the features, it was that the forehead, with all its lace-work of blue veins glancing under the clear olive skin, was too high and massive for a female face. The hair was brushed backwards, fastened behind by a large comb, tipped with gold, from which hung the long mantilla of Spain.
The sick man saw nothing of all this, he was busy among the guns at Chillianwallah.
“How long, Senhor,” said the girl, looking up at the missionary, and the large eyes filling as she did so with tears, which rolled one by one unheeded down her cheeks,—“how long has your friend been ill?”
“This is the third day, mademoiselle,” replied he, speaking in French, both father and daughter having used that language. “Have you any quinine, Senhor?” he continued, addressing the father.
“Yes, at your service; but not having had any before, what have you been using?” replied the noble, taking the sick man’s hands, and feeling his pulse.
“A drink made out of the kumbunga plant. It has cured me more than once.”
“Wait,” cried the girl, eager to be of use. “I will return in a moment,” and she flew out of the room, showing as she moved the beautiful foot and ankle peculiar to the Portuguese.
The old noble shook his head as he let the arm he held fall on the bed-clothes.
“There, use that at once,” said the breathless girl, as she returned with a small bottle filled with quinine. “And as soon as you can, get away from this terrible place.”
“We will leave now, my daughter; we are but in the way. Later on we may be useful. Command me, Senhor,” added the Portuguese; “whatever I have is at your service. I pray you do not spare me or mine.”
With a stately wave of the hand, as though he were quitting a palace, instead of a poor barrack-room in a dilapidated fort, the nobleman passed on.
“You will let me know,” said Isabel, pausing before she joined her father, and raising the large black eyes to the missionary’s face—“you will let me know how your poor friend is.” And with one more glance round the room, and at the wretched bed, she passed out.
Wyzinski stood looking at her. It seemed like a dream; but then there was the stoppered bottle of white powder in his hand to prove the reality. All that day, all that night, the missionary watched by the bedside. Towards midnight a heavy thunderstorm passed over the plains watered by the Zambesi. The air seemed blue with the forked lightning; the thunder rattled and roared over the fort, but the morning dawned calm and beautiful, and a cool breeze blew in at the open windows, bringing with it the sweet breath of the tamarind flowers. The quinine, too, had done its work; and the crisis which in the dreadful tertian fever of the Zambesi always occurs on the third day, had passed over favourably. These storms are of frequent occurrence in the land through which the Zambesi rolls its waters, and scarcely a week goes by without the thunder making itself heard round the dilapidated walls of Senna. Another of these periodical storms had just occurred, sweeping over the land, accompanied by torrents of rain, cooling the air, and refreshing the parched-up plains on the banks of the Zambesi. The river was high in consequence, rolling down branches and trees and quantities of driftwood past the brick walls of the crumbling fort. It has already been said that several small islands intersect the course of the river; and near one of these, not a stone’s throw from the water-gate, two boats were moored, swinging to the stream. The one a large European-looking pinnace—though really built on the Zambesi after an English model—possessed a covered cabin aft, and was capable of holding some twenty people. The other was of smaller and lighter mould. From the island came the sounds of laughter and conversation.
Under the trellised creepers, through which the rays of the afternoon sun were shining, sat a party of Europeans. The water was bubbling up in a stone basin; the purple grapes were hanging in rich clusters from the vines; and there, doing the honours of the table with a gentle grace which showed a practised ease and knowledge of the world, sat Dona Isabel Maxara. Near her, half sitting, half reclining on some cushions, Captain Hughes seemed lost in contemplation of the fair girl. Still very weak, and much pulled down by the short but sharp attack of the deadly tertian, he had got it into his head that the quinine had saved his life; and perhaps it was not a very unpleasant thing to be beholden for life to so fair a physician. And so he gazed on the tall, graceful, and beautifully-turned figure, the head carried with that dignified swan-like movement peculiar to Spain and Portugal, the long black lace veil now thrown back and floating behind. The clear olive complexion was well set off by the crimson lips of the well-cut mouth, and the large coal black eyes, with their long lashes, well matched by the luxuriant tresses of jetty hair. As she rose to carry the small cup of coffee to the invalid, he certainly thought the life it pleased him to consider she had saved, could not have a better use than devotion to her; and when the fair Isabel stooped over the young soldier, and one long tress, of the raven hair touched his hand, raised to receive the cap, the rosy flush flew up into a cheek once browned by exposure, but paled now by illness.
At a table close by, the Portuguese envoy, Dom Francisco Maxara, sat playing at chess with the Commandant of Senna; the two, wholly absorbed in their game, exchanging a word only at intervals. The missionary was unpacking, showing, and repacking, the various skins and small animals he had managed to secure. The birds were singing in the bushes round about, and above all came the buzz of insect life, and the ceaseless roll of the broad Zambesi.
The soldier lay back on the cushions sipping his coffee, his eyes half shut, a pleasant feeling of indolence enervating his frame, as he gazed. “She is very lovely,” he muttered; “and here am I, a captain of a marching regiment, allowing myself to fall in love with the daughter of a Portuguese grandee, whom I shall probably never see again.”
“And this,” continued Wyzinski, who seemed to have monopolised the conversation, “is it not a beautiful skin? Do you remember, Hughes, shooting this wild cat in the tree the morning of that terrible day among the Amatongas?”
“Indeed,” replied the other, “I am little likely to forget it. I shall always think it was the excitement, and the prostration consequent on the hunt, which so nearly consigned me to an African grave.”
“Tell me the tale,” cried Isabel. “I long to hear your adventures among the tribes of the interior. It seems so strange for us to meet here on this great African river.”
The conversation was carried on in French; and the soldier told of their travels; told how the baboon had first been found; how it had lived in the camp, and how it had died. The chess-players were disturbed by the silvery peals of laughter which rang round them as Hughes related, with some humour, the incident of the powder-flask; and Dona Isabel’s dark eyes had been fixed for a long time on the speaker’s face ere the tale was finished, and the sun sank beneath the horizon, the stars peeping out, while the fire-flies came floating around, and the cool puffs of the sea breeze swept across the river.
“Sing for us, Isabel,” said Dom Francisco, as he checkmated his antagonist, at the same time rising and making him a stately bow.
Dona Isabel took her guitar, and the sweet tones of her voice rang out among the trellised vines and over the broad river, dying away on the plains beyond, where the howl of the jackal was just making itself heard.
“You will give me my revenge, Senhor Maxara,” asked the Commandant.
“Nay, Dom Isidore, not possible—at least, until you do me the high honour of becoming my guest in our own land. We must leave to-morrow evening.”
“And the Dona Isabel,” asked Mujaio. “Is she, too, in such a hurry to leave Senna?”
“The Dona Isabel must abide by her father’s decision,” she replied; “but she may have a word to say to Dom Maxara on the subject.”
Rising, Isabel took her father’s arm, and leading him towards the river side, seemed to urge something, to which he would not consent.
“Impossible, Isabel; wholly so. The brig is an English trader, bound for the Cape, and takes us only as passengers. Her captain cannot delay beyond the stipulated day; but come, we will do our best.”
“My daughter, Dom Isidore has been urging our stay at Senna for some days longer, but I am forced to say nay. You, gentlemen,” continued the ceremonious old noble, bowing first to the missionary, then to the soldier, “seek to return to the Cape; will you so far honour my daughter and myself as to accompany us?”
The soldier’s face flushed with pleasure. It was just what he could have desired. Wyzinski courteously declined, urging that they must wait until the “Alert” gun brig should touch at Quillimane, as they were without funds, and unable to pay their passage to the Cape.
A stately wave of the hand from Dom Francisco followed this matter-of-fact declaration, which wounded the soldier to the quick. He almost hated Wyzinski, and yet the determination had been come to that morning, on hearing of the advent of the “Alert.”
“The brig ‘Halcyon’ waits us at Quillimane,” persisted the noble. “She is chartered by my government to convey me, its envoy, to the Cape, and can take no passengers, but is bound to receive my suite and guests. Will the senhors honour us by becoming the latter?”
“And you may, indeed, help us,” interposed Isabel, fixing her dark eyes on the missionary. “What shall we do on board an English brig, with no one to understand us. But will not the senhor be too weak if we leave to-morrow?”
As she stood there, with the stars shining upon her, and the fire-flies playing like an aureole round her head, it occurred to Hughes that he was strong enough to follow her anywhere. The missionary looked at him inquiringly.
“Every day will bring me strength,” he replied; “and I shall be very glad to get to the sea once more. Senhor Dom Francisco Maxara, I accept your kind and generous offer, with many thanks.”
“And I also,” joined in Wyzinski.
“Then, Senhor Commandant, we will start to-morrow evening. I shall leave my staff here until the surveys, estimates, and plans be completed, and you shall have your revenge when you come home.”
“All shall be in readiness,” replied Mujaio, as he took a whistle from his neck, and sounded a shrill call. A boat shot across the stream from the fort; the noise of the oars straining in the rowlocks was heard, and the bowman jumped ashore, holding the boat’s painter in his hand.
“Good-night, gentlemen,” said the noble. “I shall have much business to transact with the Senhor Commandant to-morrow, and may not see you. My daughter, Dona Isabel, will hope to have that pleasure in my absence. The smaller of the two boats allotted us you will look upon as yours.”
Moving towards the river, his daughter on his arm, the stately Portuguese took off his broad-brimmed hat most courteously. Senhor Mujaio followed, having first handed the missionary the silver whistle.
“When you require the boat you have only to use this. Good-night, gentlemen.”
A dark spot shot off from the bank into the starlight; the noise of the oars was again heard, and then the sound of a merry Portuguese air, in the chorus of which even the boatmen joined, though the soft, silvery female voice told who was the principal singer. Then the dark shadow thrown across the river received the boat, and all was silent. With a sigh of gratification, Hughes threw himself back on the cushions.
“Well, there is our future provided for,” he ejaculated. “Who would have thought of meeting such a divine creature here, Wyzinski? Fancy such a jewel shut up in that crumbling old fort. Why, the Amatongas even could take it.”
“There is a much more warlike tribe here to the north, named the Landeens, who have taken it more than once,” replied the missionary.
“And might do so again,” mused the other, “this very night.”
“Don’t you think you might utilise your light infantry education?” asked Wyzinski.
“What do you mean?”
“Why, I mean if you were to run away, as you did from the hippopotamus.”
“What, run away from the Landeens?”
“No, from the lady,” laughed Wyzinski; “I think it would be the wisest plan.”
“Don’t be a fool, Wyzinski; I am not strong enough to bear chaffing.”
“But quite strong enough to go down the stream—of course I don’t mean the stream of life, but of the Zambesi—with Dona Isabel de Maxara?”
The captain of the gallant 150th did not reply, but fell into a musing mood. Some Portuguese cigarettes lay on the table near the chessmen. The night was cool; and it was pleasant, looking over the flowing river, and watching the twinkling lights flashing from the windows and embrasures of the fort. The cry of the jackal was heard from time to time; a distant splash told of the hippopotami; and then the moon rose, tinging the stream with its rays, and lighting up the islands on its bosom. The well-known conical hill of Baramuana became distinctly visible; and far away to the northward, the faint, ghostlike outline of the Morumbala range could with difficulty be traced; while the flat country round, closely covered with forest growth, looked like a dark blot in the moonlight. The lights twinkled and then went out in the fort; the noise in the wretched houses of Senna gradually ceasing.
“And what are your intentions, Wyzinski, on your arrival at the Cape?” asked Hughes, after a long silence.
“To organise a party; get the support of the English Government, if possible; but, whether or not, to return to the Amatonga, and by means of the ambition of their chief, Umhleswa, fully to explore the ruins now lying buried there. Will you join me?”
“No, Wyzinski; I have had enough of African life. I long for Europe and its civilisation.”
“Say for Portugal and its water-melons, and I shall understand you better.”
“Nay,” answered the soldier, dreamily; “this fever has weakened me, and I have my regiment to think of. I must shake it off, or all hopes of advancement will be taken from me.”
“You are quite right,” replied the missionary. “Concentrate your thoughts on that, and don’t think of the Dona Isabel; that haughty old noble would as soon dream of the sun for her bridegroom, as of a captain of the 150th.”
The soldier sighed; and Wyzinski, using the whistle, the boat was soon once more at the island, and Senna, its fort, commandant, garrison, and guests, buried in deep sleep, even with the fear of the treacherous Landeens before their eyes.
Elephant Hunting on the Shire River.Two boats have been mentioned as intended for the use of the party descending the Zambesi River. The one was a simple ordinary pinnace, but the second and larger boat had evidently been fitted out for special use, and was in fact that appropriated to the not unfrequent voyages of the commandants of the two forts of Tete and Senna. Pulling eight oars, its speed was considerable, when rowing, as in the present instance, down stream, and it was so broad in the beam as to be able to stow away luggage as well as passengers. A light wooden framework had been constructed, so as to fit on either gunwale aft, forming a cover something resembling that of a modern English wagonette, with windows let into the side. Divans and cushions served for seats, while handsome mirrors ornamented every spare corner, thus making of the roomy boat a pleasant sleeping place, enabling its occupants to escape the pest of mosquitos, incidental to the banks of the Zambesi.Leaving Senna late, the party dropped lazily down the broad river. The moonlight was pleasant enough; and from time to time Isabel’s voice, accompanying her guitar, rang out on the night air, while many a tale of European and African life whiled away the night. Morning dawned; the beams of the rising sun tipping the tamarind trees on the banks of the Shire as the grapnel was dropped under the lee of a small island, just where the river poured its waters into the Zambesi. The men were sent ashore to pitch a tent on the right bank, and thus night was turned into day on the bosom of the broad river. That afternoon the tent was standing under the shelter of a group of mashango trees, its canvas sides being raised to admit the air; and dinner, which, with its delicacies of fish and vegetables, seemed a banquet to men who had for so long been forced to live on venison, was served under its shade. Several bottles of Bordeaux stood under there, too, swathed in wet towels, just where the warm wind was the strongest, cooling by evaporation. In front, the river, now sweeping onward, a broad majestic stream, swollen by the waters of the Shire flowing from their sources in the vast watershed of central Africa to the north. Groups of cocoa-nut and palmyra grew here and there; the gum copal threw its shadow over the glancing water; and large ebony trees of monstrous growth, thickly covered with mantling creepers, bent over the stream. There, too, was the singular palm tree, to be met with often on the Shire, which sends up its stem, dividing many times, and each one forming a fan-like top of curiously cut leaves, like giant fingers to the hand of a Cyclops; and there was the prosopis tree, long known to the settler on the Shire’s banks for the fitness of its wood for boat-building. Beyond lay the plain, one or two small kraals dotting it here and there, the patches of sugar-cane, maize, and banana showing tokens of unusual industry and civilisation. Cattle, too, were moving lazily about in the rich pasturage, or standing grouped under the shade, while far away the blue ridges of the Morumbala mountains closed the view. The day had been cool, and a slight breeze just blew out the folds of the heavy Portuguese flag, waving from the stern of the larger boat. Its cushions had been removed and placed inside the tent, and the guitar lay neglected on the ground, its fair owner listening to the soldier’s tale of the Matabele hunt and the rhinoceros, as she twisted indolently the stalk of a splendid water-lily, gathered before landing. Between Dom Francisco and the missionary was the chess-board, but both were listening too attentively to pay much attention to the game; while the boatmen and attendants were seated in small knots round the tent discussing the remainder of the dinner, emptying half-empty bottles, or laughing, talking, and tale-telling in opposition to the parrots’ screaming among the branches.“But,” said Isabel, as Hughes concluded the story, “your rhinoceros, dangerous as it was, is nothing to the animal of the same species, which we heard of at Tete, and which many affirmed they had seen.”“What is it?” eagerly asked Wyzinski, forgetting the game in his desire for information. “I once met a woman of the Makao tribe, who spoke of a strange species. Strange enough she was herself, with her upper lip pierced and ornamented by an ivory ring, a bark covering serving for petticoat, that and a necklace of bark for all clothing.”Reclining back on her cushions, the black mantilla drawn over her neck and bust, one tiny slippered foot just peeping from out of the folds of the light dress, Dona Isabel carried the pure white petals of the water-lily to her face, her large black eyes peeping over the flower contrasting strangely with its whiteness, but seeming herself too indolent to reply.Puffing a long spiral stream of smoke from his mouth, the Portuguese noble answered for her.“It is said, and implicitly believed by the natives, many of whom assert that they have seen it, that far away to the northward there exists a rhinoceros, carrying one single sharp pointed horn right in the centre of the forehead.”“The unicorn of old,” interrupted Wyzinski.“The unicorn of our fathers’ tales,” replied Dom Francisco, gravely bowing. “The animal is of immense strength and savage ferocity, say the natives. It is useless for man to contend with him, and any one who meets it may count on death.”“At all events he may take refuge in a tree, and wait until the animal goes away.”“It is said this rhinoceros will patiently bore with his sharp horn until he has broken the tree, and then kill the man; that he will work for days until his object be accomplished.”“See!” exclaimed Dona Isabel; “there are canoes coming up the river. What are they doing?”There were at that moment four small boats rounding the island, just where the Shire discharged itself into the Zambesi, and their movements seemed eccentric enough to warrant the surprise expressed by Dona Isabel.Independently of the rowers, one man stood erect in the bow of each canoe, holding in his hand an assegai, which from time to time he threw. As they neared the bank, a huge hippopotamus rose to the surface, and with a shout, the how man in the nearest canoe made his cast. The spear missed; but the second boat dashed up. Again the hippopotamus rose, and this time the assegai struck true.“Why, it is exactly the way the Arctic seamen take the whales!” exclaimed Hughes.A loud scream from Dona Isabel, as she started from her recumbent position, was heard. The hippopotamus had risen again, and with its great red mouth open, dashed in fury at the leading canoe.The man in the bow seemed paralysed with fear, for he did not make a cast; the next moment the boat was floating bottom upwards, drifting with the stream, but the animal had received another assegai as he was in the act of striking the canoe.As for its crew, they rose to the surface, and struck out for the bank, vigorously swimming like fishes, their comrades taking no notice of them. The hippopotamus seemed badly hurt now, for it rose again quickly, receiving another lance, and then, dragging itself on to the bank, fell from exhaustion and loss of blood, the natives giving a yell of triumph as they rowed up.“Listen!” said Wyzinski, “that was a shout; here, down the river bank, to the right.”“And there comes the owner of the cry,” replied Hughes; “he is a European, too, and well armed.”Dressed in a light calico suit of clothes, wearing a broad-brimmed Panama hat, and carrying a rifle in his hand, while a brace of pistols were stuck into a broad crimson Andalusian sash which encircled his waist, the owner of the shout, as Hughes had called him, rode up, followed by three mounted natives.“The Senhor Dom Francisco Maxara?” inquired the new comer, raising his sombrero.“The same, Senhor,” haughtily returned the noble, rising and replying to the courtesy.“I am Dom Assevédo, of Quillimane. I have a house at Nyangué, and am owner of a good deal of the land about here. Will the Senhor Maxara and his fair daughter (here the sombrero was again removed) condescend to consider my poor house at Nyangué their own for the period they may honour me by staying?”“I thank you, Senhor, but it may not be. The ‘Halcyon’ brig waits us at Quillimane, and I must needs say no. Isabel, can you not persuade the Senhor to join us?”“At all events, I can offer him part of my cushions,” replied the lady, “on condition he talks French, for Portuguese will not be understood by our guests.”“Ah, the two Englishmen whom I have heard of from the Limpopo. Perhaps you, gentlemen, will honour me with a visit?”This, too, was impossible; and Wyzinski was in the act of explaining why, when a loud clamour was heard among the natives, who were busy on the sandy bank below cutting up the hippopotamus. The excitement seemed to communicate itself to the boatmen, and, walking to the entrance, Dom Assevédo called out, “Come here, Senhora, there is a sight seldom seen.”Looking down the stream, which was rolling slowly on its course towards the sea, between banks where the palmyra and cocoa-palms grew in clumps, seven elephants were swimming the river. With their trunks raised high in the air, and their huge black bodies rolling from side to side, the animals, notwithstanding their tremendous bulk, seemed to move with apparent ease and pleasure to themselves.“They are heading right for the island at the mouth of the Shire!” exclaimed Hughes, all the spirit of the old shikaree reviving at the sight.“Something must have terrified them,” said Dom Assevédo; “perhaps the jungle has been fired in their rear.”“There they go—one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven, all on the island,” counted Hughes.Dona Isabel had stood, her hands clasped, her eyes fixed on the strange scene, a beautiful statue, the very model of mute astonishment.“If they don’t break out and take to the other bank, I can show you some sport, now,” exclaimed Assevédo.A few minutes of breathless watching followed, not a word being spoken, while the spiral wreaths of smoke curled up into the calm air from Dom Francisco’s cigarette. All eyes were fixed on the island. Five minutes elapsed, lengthening into ten, and the elephants had not reappeared.“Do any of you gentlemen speak Kaffir?” inquired Assevédo.“I do,” replied Wyzinski; “at least the Zulu tongue.”“Good; then do me the favour to go to the men on the river bank. Tell them you come from me, use my name, and let them get their boats together, and join us in our hunt. Senhor de Maxara, will you order your men to get your boat ready?”“Surely you will take me with you?” asked Isabel.“Fair Senhora, there is danger.”“And have I not seen the bull fights of Seville?” asked the girl, her eyes flashing fire. “Let me be able to say when I return to my country, that I have also seen the African elephant hunted.”“The animals are sure to take up the river banks for the forest land. If your boat is large enough to take my pony across, there can be no reason to say no,” replied Assevédo.The boat was found amply sufficient. A lady’s side-saddle was rummaged out from the luggage; the rifles, of which there were no lack, loaded; and the whole party, embarked in four canoes and two boats, rowed across the river. At first they pulled up the stream, so as not to alarm the elephants, striking the opposite bank much higher than the mouth of the Shire. Landing, Dom Assevédo posted the men. The elephants, when disturbed, were certain to take to the water, swim the river, and enter the woods, which here stretched right away to the foot of the hills.“Senhor Wyzinski, as you speak the Zulu tongue, will you take the canoes, and landing in rear of the elephants, make as much noise as possible, and fire the reeds if necessary.”“Senhor Inglesi, you are the younger man, will you look to the Senhora Isabel, while I and Dom Francisco take our post under yonder clump of trees.”Captain Hughes was in the act of ramming down a cartridge as he received the directions. The rifle was a heavy one, and by a lucky chance two of Devisme’s explosive cartridges fitted the bore.Dom Assevédo then explained to Isabel that, should the elephants come her way, she was to ride for the open, where she was perfectly safe, the animals not being fleet enough to overtake her, and they would be sure to make for the forest.The loud cries of the natives were soon heard, and Hughes looked about him. The Shire river, on whose banks they were, was not broad, though it appeared deep. They stood facing the river, under a clump of cocoa-nut trees. To the right at a little distance lay the Zambesi, and behind them, distant about a thousand yards, began the forest, which seemed gradually to increase in density until it became nearly impenetrable. To the left a comparatively open country, with fields of maize and sugar-cane ripening in the sun. Some long reeds growing about ten paces to their front served as a screen.Not a word was spoken, and as he stood by the pony’s side, and looked up at its rider’s slender, graceful figure, and beautiful face, the soldier felt the duty he had undertaken a pleasant one.Isabel sat on her horse like a statue, her lips parted showed the white teeth, her eyes intently fixed on the island, and her face shaded from the sun by a flapped-hat with its broad brim.Shouts and yells came floating on the air over the Shire river, sometimes very loud and eager, at others dying away, and at last a large black mass slowly approached to the water side. Isabel clasped her hands as the elephant waded into the river, ejaculating some words in her own language; but the great animal paused, looked over the Shire towards the opposite bank, and, whether suspecting clanger or not liking a second swim, it returned to cover.And now a faint column of blue smoke shot up from the island, telling that Wyzinski had fired the bush; it thickened as the dry reeds caught fire, the red flame darted up at intervals, and heavy masses of smoke rolled away to leeward. The fire leaped merrily onward, making rapid progress, and soon a loud trumpeting was heard, as, plunging into the river, the elephants, terribly frightened, swam towards the opposite bank, their trunks raised in the air high above the water. They would evidently land within twenty paces of where Dona Isabel was posted.“Tighten your bridle-rein, Dona Isabel,” whispered the soldier, as he placed his hand on the snaffle. “Be ready. Here they come!”“Madre de Dios!” ejaculated the astonished girl. “Oh! Santa Maria, how grand!”Rolling about like seven huge porpoises, their backs, heads, and flapping ears above water, the elephants came on swimming in Indian file. The trunk raised straight up in the air gave to the black masses a strange look, while the tusks at times lowered sent the water in their front spurting into the air. Three out of the seven were males. They gained the bank, the water falling from them in sheets, and then they leisurely walked away for cover. One old male was some dozen yards behind the rest, and this elephant Captain Hughes singled out for himself. Landing, it stood for a second or two, the water dripping from its huge sides, looking curiously around. At this moment the loud reports of two rifles rang out from the forest, and the remaining elephant, alarmed, moved off in an oblique direction, which would bring it close to the spot where stood Dona Isabel and the soldier.The former seemed quite stupefied with wonder as the great mass came onward at a trot, swinging its long trunk to and fro.“Ride for your life, Dona Isabel!” said Hughes; “keep for the open, and ride hard.”Hughes loosed his hold of the reins, and the pony started off. Isabel, turning in her saddle, fixed her gaze on the elephant, and in so doing turned the pony’s head right for the forest.Hughes shouted loudly, but without effect; the girl, wholly absorbed with her astonishment, knew not her danger. For a second the elephant paused, then, trumpeting with rage, dashed after her.The right moment had been lost. Captain Hughes, in his endeavours to make Isabel turn, had neglected it, and when he did raise his rifle to fire, the elephant was at forty paces distant, turned from him, and going at full speed. To level his rifle, aim, and fire, was the work of a second. The elephant slackened its pace, but only for a moment, the soldier, his rifle at the trail, dashing madly after it. On swept the pony at top speed, but the elephant gained on it. Isabel’s hat had fallen, her long, jet-black hair was floating on the wind. The forest lay before her, through which she could not ride many paces; but she knew it not, for her gaze was still rivetted on the elephant. On they swept, the soldier dashing after them madly, shouting to her yet to turn for the open. The forest line was reached, and in a moment, swept from her saddle by the branches, Dona Isabel lay on the ground, the riderless pony dashing on. On, too, came the elephant, after the horse, trumpeting furiously. It passed over the prostrate form, its huge foot within an inch of the fair head, and the next moment its tusks were buried in the flanks of the agonised horse, which had been stopped by the forest undergrowth. Bearing it down, the huge elephant actually pinned the animal to the ground, where it held it impaled and writhing with agony, then deliberately kneeling on the bleeding carcass literally crushed it into a shapeless mass. Rising, the elephant turned from the dead pony, trumpeting once more as it saw lying on the ground, quite inanimate, the form of the rider. Dom Francisco and Assevédo were hurrying up, but were yet distant. They both fired, but the bullets served but to enrage still further the infuriated animal, as it came on, the blood dripping in large gouts from its reddened tusks. It was a race between it and the soldier—a race won by the man, as, breathless, and with only one barrel of his rifle loaded, he stood between the senseless Isabel and the charging animal. On it came, right upon him; if it passed it must tread down the fair girl’s body. The thought gave him nerve, it steadied his hand as he aimed right for the centre of the forehead. The report rang out, the elephant halted suddenly, swaying from side to side, and then fell with a heavy thud. A loud shout from the two men advancing over the plain, and Hughes knew that Dona Isabel was safe. Throwing aside his now useless rifle, he knelt by her side, raising her on his arm, and leaning her head back against his knee; a small red stream was flowing from her forehead, and she had fainted.“My child—my Isabel!” moaned the old man, forgetting his pride in his sorrow, as he threw himself by his daughter’s side, panting and breathless.“It is nothing, she has fainted. I go for water!” exclaimed Assevédo, as he hastened towards the river.Slowly the blue veins beneath the clear olive skin began to beat again. Once more the eyes opened and closed. Hughes was busy sponging away the blood, which flowed rather freely, with a handkerchief. Dom Francisco and Assevédo, kneeling by Isabel’s side, were using the cool water of the Shire river; and close beside them, its tusks red with blood, the enormous bulk of the dead elephant; while, fifty paces away—a crushed and unsightly mass—lay the pony.Isabel opened her eyes, and seemed for a moment utterly astonished. “Santa Maria!” she ejaculated, “where am I?”Then suddenly the whole affair seemed to flash on her memory, and, raising herself gently, she smiled.“I was not frightened, only astonished,” said the brave girl, as the red blood mantled in her cheeks. “Where is the elephant?”“There,” answered her father; “and you may thank the Senhor Capitano Inglesi that it lies there.”Isabel de Maxara turned—the dead animal with its gory tusks, and the shapeless mass which had been a horse, met her gaze. For a moment her face flushed, the red blood once more mantling richly under the clear olive skin; the next she grew deadly pale. “I thank you, senhor,” she said as she looked full at the soldier and held out her hand, “I thank you for my life.”The rest of the party were standing by the elephant. Hughes clasped the long taper fingers, and looked into the black eyes, from which the tears were falling. For a moment they met the gaze, and then fell before his as he kissed the little hand held out to him.“Your ball has shivered his head, Hughes,” called out Wyzinski, but the soldier paused a moment to thrust into his bosom a blood-stained pocket-handkerchief before he joined them.The second ball, a heavy conical one, had penetrated the skull before bursting, making a frightful hole, and blowing the head to pieces; a second severe wound, behind the shoulder, showing where the first had struck.The elephant was a very large one, and was the only one out of the seven secured.“And now, gentlemen, let us leave the cutting up to the natives. You can scarcely refuse my late request now, after what has passed, if it is only that Dona Isabel needs rest.”“If we comply I must make a condition, namely, that you send a messenger to Quillimane, to warn Captain Weber of the delay, and it must not be for more than twenty-four hours.”“Agreed, and now for the boats and my house at Nyangué,” cheerfully exclaimed Assevédo.“Senhor Inglesi, I thank you most heartily and sincerely,” said the old noble, taking off his hat, bowing, and grasping the soldier’s hand warmly in his own. “You have earned our eternal gratitude at the peril of your life.”“Don’t you think a light infantry movement and a timely retreat would be a brilliant evolution?” whispered the missionary, as he passed Hughes. “I don’t mind backing the flavour of the water-melons of Portugal against the custard-apples of India.”“Nonsense. Just mind your own business,” replied Hughes, as he picked up the discharged rifle, shouldered it, and joined the party on the Shire’s bank.
Two boats have been mentioned as intended for the use of the party descending the Zambesi River. The one was a simple ordinary pinnace, but the second and larger boat had evidently been fitted out for special use, and was in fact that appropriated to the not unfrequent voyages of the commandants of the two forts of Tete and Senna. Pulling eight oars, its speed was considerable, when rowing, as in the present instance, down stream, and it was so broad in the beam as to be able to stow away luggage as well as passengers. A light wooden framework had been constructed, so as to fit on either gunwale aft, forming a cover something resembling that of a modern English wagonette, with windows let into the side. Divans and cushions served for seats, while handsome mirrors ornamented every spare corner, thus making of the roomy boat a pleasant sleeping place, enabling its occupants to escape the pest of mosquitos, incidental to the banks of the Zambesi.
Leaving Senna late, the party dropped lazily down the broad river. The moonlight was pleasant enough; and from time to time Isabel’s voice, accompanying her guitar, rang out on the night air, while many a tale of European and African life whiled away the night. Morning dawned; the beams of the rising sun tipping the tamarind trees on the banks of the Shire as the grapnel was dropped under the lee of a small island, just where the river poured its waters into the Zambesi. The men were sent ashore to pitch a tent on the right bank, and thus night was turned into day on the bosom of the broad river. That afternoon the tent was standing under the shelter of a group of mashango trees, its canvas sides being raised to admit the air; and dinner, which, with its delicacies of fish and vegetables, seemed a banquet to men who had for so long been forced to live on venison, was served under its shade. Several bottles of Bordeaux stood under there, too, swathed in wet towels, just where the warm wind was the strongest, cooling by evaporation. In front, the river, now sweeping onward, a broad majestic stream, swollen by the waters of the Shire flowing from their sources in the vast watershed of central Africa to the north. Groups of cocoa-nut and palmyra grew here and there; the gum copal threw its shadow over the glancing water; and large ebony trees of monstrous growth, thickly covered with mantling creepers, bent over the stream. There, too, was the singular palm tree, to be met with often on the Shire, which sends up its stem, dividing many times, and each one forming a fan-like top of curiously cut leaves, like giant fingers to the hand of a Cyclops; and there was the prosopis tree, long known to the settler on the Shire’s banks for the fitness of its wood for boat-building. Beyond lay the plain, one or two small kraals dotting it here and there, the patches of sugar-cane, maize, and banana showing tokens of unusual industry and civilisation. Cattle, too, were moving lazily about in the rich pasturage, or standing grouped under the shade, while far away the blue ridges of the Morumbala mountains closed the view. The day had been cool, and a slight breeze just blew out the folds of the heavy Portuguese flag, waving from the stern of the larger boat. Its cushions had been removed and placed inside the tent, and the guitar lay neglected on the ground, its fair owner listening to the soldier’s tale of the Matabele hunt and the rhinoceros, as she twisted indolently the stalk of a splendid water-lily, gathered before landing. Between Dom Francisco and the missionary was the chess-board, but both were listening too attentively to pay much attention to the game; while the boatmen and attendants were seated in small knots round the tent discussing the remainder of the dinner, emptying half-empty bottles, or laughing, talking, and tale-telling in opposition to the parrots’ screaming among the branches.
“But,” said Isabel, as Hughes concluded the story, “your rhinoceros, dangerous as it was, is nothing to the animal of the same species, which we heard of at Tete, and which many affirmed they had seen.”
“What is it?” eagerly asked Wyzinski, forgetting the game in his desire for information. “I once met a woman of the Makao tribe, who spoke of a strange species. Strange enough she was herself, with her upper lip pierced and ornamented by an ivory ring, a bark covering serving for petticoat, that and a necklace of bark for all clothing.”
Reclining back on her cushions, the black mantilla drawn over her neck and bust, one tiny slippered foot just peeping from out of the folds of the light dress, Dona Isabel carried the pure white petals of the water-lily to her face, her large black eyes peeping over the flower contrasting strangely with its whiteness, but seeming herself too indolent to reply.
Puffing a long spiral stream of smoke from his mouth, the Portuguese noble answered for her.
“It is said, and implicitly believed by the natives, many of whom assert that they have seen it, that far away to the northward there exists a rhinoceros, carrying one single sharp pointed horn right in the centre of the forehead.”
“The unicorn of old,” interrupted Wyzinski.
“The unicorn of our fathers’ tales,” replied Dom Francisco, gravely bowing. “The animal is of immense strength and savage ferocity, say the natives. It is useless for man to contend with him, and any one who meets it may count on death.”
“At all events he may take refuge in a tree, and wait until the animal goes away.”
“It is said this rhinoceros will patiently bore with his sharp horn until he has broken the tree, and then kill the man; that he will work for days until his object be accomplished.”
“See!” exclaimed Dona Isabel; “there are canoes coming up the river. What are they doing?”
There were at that moment four small boats rounding the island, just where the Shire discharged itself into the Zambesi, and their movements seemed eccentric enough to warrant the surprise expressed by Dona Isabel.
Independently of the rowers, one man stood erect in the bow of each canoe, holding in his hand an assegai, which from time to time he threw. As they neared the bank, a huge hippopotamus rose to the surface, and with a shout, the how man in the nearest canoe made his cast. The spear missed; but the second boat dashed up. Again the hippopotamus rose, and this time the assegai struck true.
“Why, it is exactly the way the Arctic seamen take the whales!” exclaimed Hughes.
A loud scream from Dona Isabel, as she started from her recumbent position, was heard. The hippopotamus had risen again, and with its great red mouth open, dashed in fury at the leading canoe.
The man in the bow seemed paralysed with fear, for he did not make a cast; the next moment the boat was floating bottom upwards, drifting with the stream, but the animal had received another assegai as he was in the act of striking the canoe.
As for its crew, they rose to the surface, and struck out for the bank, vigorously swimming like fishes, their comrades taking no notice of them. The hippopotamus seemed badly hurt now, for it rose again quickly, receiving another lance, and then, dragging itself on to the bank, fell from exhaustion and loss of blood, the natives giving a yell of triumph as they rowed up.
“Listen!” said Wyzinski, “that was a shout; here, down the river bank, to the right.”
“And there comes the owner of the cry,” replied Hughes; “he is a European, too, and well armed.”
Dressed in a light calico suit of clothes, wearing a broad-brimmed Panama hat, and carrying a rifle in his hand, while a brace of pistols were stuck into a broad crimson Andalusian sash which encircled his waist, the owner of the shout, as Hughes had called him, rode up, followed by three mounted natives.
“The Senhor Dom Francisco Maxara?” inquired the new comer, raising his sombrero.
“The same, Senhor,” haughtily returned the noble, rising and replying to the courtesy.
“I am Dom Assevédo, of Quillimane. I have a house at Nyangué, and am owner of a good deal of the land about here. Will the Senhor Maxara and his fair daughter (here the sombrero was again removed) condescend to consider my poor house at Nyangué their own for the period they may honour me by staying?”
“I thank you, Senhor, but it may not be. The ‘Halcyon’ brig waits us at Quillimane, and I must needs say no. Isabel, can you not persuade the Senhor to join us?”
“At all events, I can offer him part of my cushions,” replied the lady, “on condition he talks French, for Portuguese will not be understood by our guests.”
“Ah, the two Englishmen whom I have heard of from the Limpopo. Perhaps you, gentlemen, will honour me with a visit?”
This, too, was impossible; and Wyzinski was in the act of explaining why, when a loud clamour was heard among the natives, who were busy on the sandy bank below cutting up the hippopotamus. The excitement seemed to communicate itself to the boatmen, and, walking to the entrance, Dom Assevédo called out, “Come here, Senhora, there is a sight seldom seen.”
Looking down the stream, which was rolling slowly on its course towards the sea, between banks where the palmyra and cocoa-palms grew in clumps, seven elephants were swimming the river. With their trunks raised high in the air, and their huge black bodies rolling from side to side, the animals, notwithstanding their tremendous bulk, seemed to move with apparent ease and pleasure to themselves.
“They are heading right for the island at the mouth of the Shire!” exclaimed Hughes, all the spirit of the old shikaree reviving at the sight.
“Something must have terrified them,” said Dom Assevédo; “perhaps the jungle has been fired in their rear.”
“There they go—one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven, all on the island,” counted Hughes.
Dona Isabel had stood, her hands clasped, her eyes fixed on the strange scene, a beautiful statue, the very model of mute astonishment.
“If they don’t break out and take to the other bank, I can show you some sport, now,” exclaimed Assevédo.
A few minutes of breathless watching followed, not a word being spoken, while the spiral wreaths of smoke curled up into the calm air from Dom Francisco’s cigarette. All eyes were fixed on the island. Five minutes elapsed, lengthening into ten, and the elephants had not reappeared.
“Do any of you gentlemen speak Kaffir?” inquired Assevédo.
“I do,” replied Wyzinski; “at least the Zulu tongue.”
“Good; then do me the favour to go to the men on the river bank. Tell them you come from me, use my name, and let them get their boats together, and join us in our hunt. Senhor de Maxara, will you order your men to get your boat ready?”
“Surely you will take me with you?” asked Isabel.
“Fair Senhora, there is danger.”
“And have I not seen the bull fights of Seville?” asked the girl, her eyes flashing fire. “Let me be able to say when I return to my country, that I have also seen the African elephant hunted.”
“The animals are sure to take up the river banks for the forest land. If your boat is large enough to take my pony across, there can be no reason to say no,” replied Assevédo.
The boat was found amply sufficient. A lady’s side-saddle was rummaged out from the luggage; the rifles, of which there were no lack, loaded; and the whole party, embarked in four canoes and two boats, rowed across the river. At first they pulled up the stream, so as not to alarm the elephants, striking the opposite bank much higher than the mouth of the Shire. Landing, Dom Assevédo posted the men. The elephants, when disturbed, were certain to take to the water, swim the river, and enter the woods, which here stretched right away to the foot of the hills.
“Senhor Wyzinski, as you speak the Zulu tongue, will you take the canoes, and landing in rear of the elephants, make as much noise as possible, and fire the reeds if necessary.”
“Senhor Inglesi, you are the younger man, will you look to the Senhora Isabel, while I and Dom Francisco take our post under yonder clump of trees.”
Captain Hughes was in the act of ramming down a cartridge as he received the directions. The rifle was a heavy one, and by a lucky chance two of Devisme’s explosive cartridges fitted the bore.
Dom Assevédo then explained to Isabel that, should the elephants come her way, she was to ride for the open, where she was perfectly safe, the animals not being fleet enough to overtake her, and they would be sure to make for the forest.
The loud cries of the natives were soon heard, and Hughes looked about him. The Shire river, on whose banks they were, was not broad, though it appeared deep. They stood facing the river, under a clump of cocoa-nut trees. To the right at a little distance lay the Zambesi, and behind them, distant about a thousand yards, began the forest, which seemed gradually to increase in density until it became nearly impenetrable. To the left a comparatively open country, with fields of maize and sugar-cane ripening in the sun. Some long reeds growing about ten paces to their front served as a screen.
Not a word was spoken, and as he stood by the pony’s side, and looked up at its rider’s slender, graceful figure, and beautiful face, the soldier felt the duty he had undertaken a pleasant one.
Isabel sat on her horse like a statue, her lips parted showed the white teeth, her eyes intently fixed on the island, and her face shaded from the sun by a flapped-hat with its broad brim.
Shouts and yells came floating on the air over the Shire river, sometimes very loud and eager, at others dying away, and at last a large black mass slowly approached to the water side. Isabel clasped her hands as the elephant waded into the river, ejaculating some words in her own language; but the great animal paused, looked over the Shire towards the opposite bank, and, whether suspecting clanger or not liking a second swim, it returned to cover.
And now a faint column of blue smoke shot up from the island, telling that Wyzinski had fired the bush; it thickened as the dry reeds caught fire, the red flame darted up at intervals, and heavy masses of smoke rolled away to leeward. The fire leaped merrily onward, making rapid progress, and soon a loud trumpeting was heard, as, plunging into the river, the elephants, terribly frightened, swam towards the opposite bank, their trunks raised in the air high above the water. They would evidently land within twenty paces of where Dona Isabel was posted.
“Tighten your bridle-rein, Dona Isabel,” whispered the soldier, as he placed his hand on the snaffle. “Be ready. Here they come!”
“Madre de Dios!” ejaculated the astonished girl. “Oh! Santa Maria, how grand!”
Rolling about like seven huge porpoises, their backs, heads, and flapping ears above water, the elephants came on swimming in Indian file. The trunk raised straight up in the air gave to the black masses a strange look, while the tusks at times lowered sent the water in their front spurting into the air. Three out of the seven were males. They gained the bank, the water falling from them in sheets, and then they leisurely walked away for cover. One old male was some dozen yards behind the rest, and this elephant Captain Hughes singled out for himself. Landing, it stood for a second or two, the water dripping from its huge sides, looking curiously around. At this moment the loud reports of two rifles rang out from the forest, and the remaining elephant, alarmed, moved off in an oblique direction, which would bring it close to the spot where stood Dona Isabel and the soldier.
The former seemed quite stupefied with wonder as the great mass came onward at a trot, swinging its long trunk to and fro.
“Ride for your life, Dona Isabel!” said Hughes; “keep for the open, and ride hard.”
Hughes loosed his hold of the reins, and the pony started off. Isabel, turning in her saddle, fixed her gaze on the elephant, and in so doing turned the pony’s head right for the forest.
Hughes shouted loudly, but without effect; the girl, wholly absorbed with her astonishment, knew not her danger. For a second the elephant paused, then, trumpeting with rage, dashed after her.
The right moment had been lost. Captain Hughes, in his endeavours to make Isabel turn, had neglected it, and when he did raise his rifle to fire, the elephant was at forty paces distant, turned from him, and going at full speed. To level his rifle, aim, and fire, was the work of a second. The elephant slackened its pace, but only for a moment, the soldier, his rifle at the trail, dashing madly after it. On swept the pony at top speed, but the elephant gained on it. Isabel’s hat had fallen, her long, jet-black hair was floating on the wind. The forest lay before her, through which she could not ride many paces; but she knew it not, for her gaze was still rivetted on the elephant. On they swept, the soldier dashing after them madly, shouting to her yet to turn for the open. The forest line was reached, and in a moment, swept from her saddle by the branches, Dona Isabel lay on the ground, the riderless pony dashing on. On, too, came the elephant, after the horse, trumpeting furiously. It passed over the prostrate form, its huge foot within an inch of the fair head, and the next moment its tusks were buried in the flanks of the agonised horse, which had been stopped by the forest undergrowth. Bearing it down, the huge elephant actually pinned the animal to the ground, where it held it impaled and writhing with agony, then deliberately kneeling on the bleeding carcass literally crushed it into a shapeless mass. Rising, the elephant turned from the dead pony, trumpeting once more as it saw lying on the ground, quite inanimate, the form of the rider. Dom Francisco and Assevédo were hurrying up, but were yet distant. They both fired, but the bullets served but to enrage still further the infuriated animal, as it came on, the blood dripping in large gouts from its reddened tusks. It was a race between it and the soldier—a race won by the man, as, breathless, and with only one barrel of his rifle loaded, he stood between the senseless Isabel and the charging animal. On it came, right upon him; if it passed it must tread down the fair girl’s body. The thought gave him nerve, it steadied his hand as he aimed right for the centre of the forehead. The report rang out, the elephant halted suddenly, swaying from side to side, and then fell with a heavy thud. A loud shout from the two men advancing over the plain, and Hughes knew that Dona Isabel was safe. Throwing aside his now useless rifle, he knelt by her side, raising her on his arm, and leaning her head back against his knee; a small red stream was flowing from her forehead, and she had fainted.
“My child—my Isabel!” moaned the old man, forgetting his pride in his sorrow, as he threw himself by his daughter’s side, panting and breathless.
“It is nothing, she has fainted. I go for water!” exclaimed Assevédo, as he hastened towards the river.
Slowly the blue veins beneath the clear olive skin began to beat again. Once more the eyes opened and closed. Hughes was busy sponging away the blood, which flowed rather freely, with a handkerchief. Dom Francisco and Assevédo, kneeling by Isabel’s side, were using the cool water of the Shire river; and close beside them, its tusks red with blood, the enormous bulk of the dead elephant; while, fifty paces away—a crushed and unsightly mass—lay the pony.
Isabel opened her eyes, and seemed for a moment utterly astonished. “Santa Maria!” she ejaculated, “where am I?”
Then suddenly the whole affair seemed to flash on her memory, and, raising herself gently, she smiled.
“I was not frightened, only astonished,” said the brave girl, as the red blood mantled in her cheeks. “Where is the elephant?”
“There,” answered her father; “and you may thank the Senhor Capitano Inglesi that it lies there.”
Isabel de Maxara turned—the dead animal with its gory tusks, and the shapeless mass which had been a horse, met her gaze. For a moment her face flushed, the red blood once more mantling richly under the clear olive skin; the next she grew deadly pale. “I thank you, senhor,” she said as she looked full at the soldier and held out her hand, “I thank you for my life.”
The rest of the party were standing by the elephant. Hughes clasped the long taper fingers, and looked into the black eyes, from which the tears were falling. For a moment they met the gaze, and then fell before his as he kissed the little hand held out to him.
“Your ball has shivered his head, Hughes,” called out Wyzinski, but the soldier paused a moment to thrust into his bosom a blood-stained pocket-handkerchief before he joined them.
The second ball, a heavy conical one, had penetrated the skull before bursting, making a frightful hole, and blowing the head to pieces; a second severe wound, behind the shoulder, showing where the first had struck.
The elephant was a very large one, and was the only one out of the seven secured.
“And now, gentlemen, let us leave the cutting up to the natives. You can scarcely refuse my late request now, after what has passed, if it is only that Dona Isabel needs rest.”
“If we comply I must make a condition, namely, that you send a messenger to Quillimane, to warn Captain Weber of the delay, and it must not be for more than twenty-four hours.”
“Agreed, and now for the boats and my house at Nyangué,” cheerfully exclaimed Assevédo.
“Senhor Inglesi, I thank you most heartily and sincerely,” said the old noble, taking off his hat, bowing, and grasping the soldier’s hand warmly in his own. “You have earned our eternal gratitude at the peril of your life.”
“Don’t you think a light infantry movement and a timely retreat would be a brilliant evolution?” whispered the missionary, as he passed Hughes. “I don’t mind backing the flavour of the water-melons of Portugal against the custard-apples of India.”
“Nonsense. Just mind your own business,” replied Hughes, as he picked up the discharged rifle, shouldered it, and joined the party on the Shire’s bank.