



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England






PREFACE.

No one ever reads prefaces now-a-days; why, therefore, should I write
one? may be fairly asked.  Simply, I reply, to tell the reader that the
tale imperfectly related in these volumes is not a mere work of fiction.
It is based on a document sent to me by my brother, to whom I have
dedicated this work, and who has for many years been a resident of the
frontiers of Zulu Land.

The paper alluded to was transmitted by me, according to my brother's
desire, to His Imperial Majesty the Emperor of the French, together with
a map of Zulu Land, which had been exhibited in the Natal section of the
great Paris Exhibition of 1867.  Both were graciously accepted and
acknowledged by His Imperial Majesty.

The country traversed by the daring men, whose adventures are related in
the following pages, is still to be explored.  The ruins of the Fort of
Sofala, even now, lie buried in the sand, on the beach of the far away
Indian Ocean.  The Arabs still search there for the smelted lumps of
gold, buried or lost by those of whose existence no other trace remains.

The mysterious slabs still exist, encrusted with the dirt and grime of
ages, on the mountain land of Gorongoza, and should my tale induce any
adventurous spirit to make an attempt to clear away the veil of mystery
which yet shrouds the remains of the Ruined Cities of Zulu Land, I can
only refer him to Captain Walmsley, from whom the primary information
contained herein was first gleaned, before whom the Missionary's
depositions were made, and who, for more than fifteen years of his life,
has well and honourably filled the difficult and dangerous position of
Government Agent, Magistrate, and Resident on the wild frontier of
savage Zulu Land.

Volume 1, Chapter I.

BELLARY FORT.

There are few hotter places, and few more unhealthy ones, among our
Indian up-country stations than Bellary, in the Madras Presidency,
garrisoned in the year 1856 by Her Majesty's 150th Regiment of Infantry.
Let the reader imagine the lines of a fort drawn round a bare
sugar-loaf hill, on which an Indian sun pours its rays for months.
Thoroughly heated by this process of roasting, the arid rock gives out
all night the caloric absorbed during the day, and a three years'
residence in the Fort of Bellary, such as had been passed by the
officers and men of the 150th Regiment, was about equivalent to the same
period in a baker's oven.  Years passed, and the English Government had
at last perceived that it was madness to keep troops within the lines of
the old fort when a rich and well-timbered plain lay around it.
Barracks had been built outside; and about three-quarters of a mile
distant from the main gate of Bellary, white bungalows, with their green
verandahs and their well-kept compounds, lay scattered here and there
among the trees, while far away, under the moon's rays, on the night
when our tale opens, a beautiful one in December, stretched the rich
plain, with its piles of rock rising like huge black molehills here and
there, giving welcome shelter to the wild-cats, jackals, and hyenas,
whose cries might be heard from time to time ringing over the plain.
The mess-house of the regiment consisted of the usual large commodious
building, with its many outhouses or godowns, the whole surrounded by a
low wall, and that again protected by a strong hedge of the prickly
pear.  A broad verandah ran round the main building, and a flight of
steps led up to the house, where some half-dozen of the officers of the
corps, dressed in white, with nothing to distinguish them except the
forage-cap bearing the number of the regiment, were seated, chatting and
smoking.  The day had been very hot, but a pleasant breeze was blowing
over the plain; the click of the billiard-balls was heard from an
adjoining room, whose windows, thrown wide open, cast a stream of light
into the compound, and the hum of voices from the messroom told of the
dinner only just finished, and of the party of seasoned old soldiers who
were even then loth to quit the pleasures of the table and the bottle of
Madeira which had crossed the line four times, and for which particular
wine the 150th had long been justly famous.

"I am half sorry that my leave has arrived, just as we are expecting the
route," said an officer, puffing out a long spiral wreath of smoke as he
spoke, and reaching out his hand towards the tumbler of weak brandy
pawnee standing on a small table by his side.

"Hear him, the impostor!" laughed a second.  "Two years of leave, after
nearly nine of foreign service, and he talks of regret."

The