CHAPTER XI
SECOND TRIP TO RICHTERSFELDT—SMASH-UP IN HELL’S KLOOF—CHRISTMAS AT KUBOOS—TESTING THE “BANKET”—A NEAR THING IN THE RAPIDS—AFTER A LEOPARD—NEW TRAILS—HOTTENTOT SUPERSTITION—STEWED FLAMINGO AND OTHER WEIRD DISHES—END OF THE TRIP.
A month later I was again back in Port Nolloth, accompanied by Ransson and L. Poulley, a Rhodesian to whose imagination the huge beds of conglomerate we had seen appealed very strongly. We came prepared to test them thoroughly, and, if possible, to explore the Tatas Berg and the eastern portion of the district.
The wiseacres of Port Nolloth shook their heads sagely and prophesied all sorts of dangers and difficulties.
“Prospect the Richtersfeldt in December! Madness ... no water ... heat like H—— with the lid off,” etc. etc.
But, as events proved, our troubles came from neither of these sources, for though the heat really merited the description given it, we were all used to it, and though we suffered a bit from thirst at times, we had rather too much water before the trip was over.
We had difficulty over the transport, for it was harvest-time and the natives were busy getting in their corn, and it was only after several days’ delay that we received an urgent message to the effect that our waggon was waiting us at “15 miles” and that there was no water for the oxen. They called them “oxen,” but we found a most nondescript team of cows, heifers, oxen, and young bulls had been got together to take us part of the way; still, poor as the team was, it served, and we were thankful forsmall mercies. We did not follow our previous route, this time skirting the mountains running almost due north to Lekkersing and Brakfontein, at both of which places there was water. At the latter spot our troubles began. The waggon could take us no farther, and its native owner had arranged for a conveyance from Kuboos to meet us there and take us on. So at a most dreary spot, not far from the pool of brak water that gives the place its name, we were dumped with all our belongings, and the rickety waggon with its scratch team turned back hurriedly to the harvesting. Later, our ponies turned up from Kuboos, and with them, to our dismay, a small cart for our belongings, which had taxed the capacity of the departed waggon. It was obviously not half big enough for the load, but to send for another meant several days’ more delay, and so we turned to and packed and loaded and overloaded that cart till it looked a veritable work of art. It was piled aloft like a haystack, and the load projected well over the quarters of the oxen, overlapped the wheels on either side, and stuck out behind like the stern of a ship. And always we found something more to pile—or tie—on, but at length, festooned like a tinker’s waggon, we had it securely roped and were ready to start.
The oxen were inspanned, the driver gave a yell and a crack of his whip, and it moved in a swaying, staggering manner across the veldt. Ransson and Poulley mounted and followed hopefully, and even I began to think it might possibly pull through, and was climbing into my saddle when I heard a shout, and turned to see the axle buckle as though made of lead, the wheels spread till they could spread no farther, and the whole caboodle collapse—crushed flat by its load.... There was nothing to be done, and all we said didn’t seem to help! It was hopeless to attempt to mend it, and so we mounted a “boy” on the fastest horse, gave him food and water, and sent him off at a gallop to bring another vehicle from Kuboos.
Meanwhile we pitched our tent and made ourselves comfortable, and waited four long days. There was literally nothing to do, no game to be found except a few Namaquas partridges and a solitary hare, which it seemed a shame to shoot.
At the pool known as “Brakfontein” there were traces of an ancient settlement, with many of the circular graves made by the Hottentots before they became Christianised, and in the sandstone cliffs were many small caves which showed signs of having been inhabited; but I searched in vain for any trace of Bushman paintings. These sandstones resembled those of the Zwartmodder series; in places they are interbedded with shales and quartzite, showing many signs of earth movement and lateral pressure.
On the morning of the fifth day a light waggon arrived and we lost no time in trekking. Three days later we were at Kuboos, where we stored our heavy gear with the native teacher, and began making arrangements for our next move. Whilst delayed at Port Nolloth we had gathered much more information as to the old discovery of gold in “Dabee River,” at which we had worked successfully on our previous trip, and had arrived at the conclusion that we had been taken to the wrong spot. Our informants told us that at the right place nuggets could be picked up in abundance, and it was obvious that they thought little of us for not coming back with a load of gold!
More, there was forthcoming an intelligent coloured man who had accompanied the first expedition, and seen and helped pick up the first nuggets, and who for a substantial consideration would come with us and show us the real spot.
And as we did not like the idea that possibly an El Dorado was all the time waiting near where we had tried in vain, we decided to let this chap take us there, and altered our plans accordingly.
We had no intention, however, of taking a waggon through Hell’s Kloof again, and tried to obtain a Scotch cart, but in vain. There were several waggons at Kuboos, but the only cart available was the onewe had placedhors de combat. However, it had been dragged in behind the waggon, and a close examination showed that, although the axle had buckled to a V-shape, the wheels and body were fairly sound, and Poulley said we could mend it ourselves. There was plenty of wood in the river-bed, and, turning to, we soon had a big fire, and the axle was heated red-hot and hammered straight, and the cart ready to start again before the group of open-mouthed Hottentots watching us knew what we were doing.
With a light load drawn by six oxen, our horses, and a few “boys,” we started the following morning down the long dry Annis River towards Hell’s Kloof. To the right rose the formidable range through which we must eventually find a way, on our left, towards the sea, the rolling plain, covered with dark scrub, stretched as far as the eye could reach, dreary, solitary, uninhabited.
Far ahead, through the already shimmering heat, lay the dark winding belt of trees bordering the Orange, and faint against the glaring sky showed the high, fantastic peaks in German territory.
We were accompanied by two of the Namaqualand District Police, whose unenviable task it was to search for the body of a Hottentot supposed to be dead of thirst somewhere in the mountains beyond Hell’s Kloof. He had been missing for some time, and a relative—a guide who knew the mountains well—had found his spoor in the Dabee River—close to where we were returning to try for gold. They are wonderful trackers, these Hottentots, and this guide could tell that the missing man had been staggering and in an exhausted condition when he had left our old water-hole—which was long since dry—and as he (the guide) knew of no water for a full day’s trek in any direction, he concluded the man was dead.
Neither of the police had been through Hell’s Kloof before, and they did not care how soon their unpleasant task was over. A long day’s ride brought us to near the Numees mine, and early the followingday we started through Hell’s Kloof. The six sturdy oxen were either of them individually capable of dragging the light cart and its contents over the greater part of the track—bad as it was—but unfortunately they were not used to being yoked to anything smaller than a waggon with a span of about sixteen beasts, and the task of driving them was an extremely difficult one, as often they were pulling in different directions. But we successfully negotiated bad spot after bad spot, and had arrived within sight of the formidable ascent out of the Kloof which had hung us up before, when, on going down a short but very steep slope, the leaders jibbed and stopped, the wheelers kept on and ran into them, and the cart took charge. It side-skidded a yard or two, and then went down with a run. Smash went the disselboom, into a steep face of rock went the cart, and bags, boxes, tools, dynamite, bottles of acid, pestles and mortars went flying in all directions. The detonators were in my pocket, but still the little hair I have remaining rose as I saw the case of dynamite describe the arc of a circle in the air a few feet from me, and come down with a bang on a rock, splitting it open and scattering the cartridges in all directions. A large glass jar containing “aqua regia” (a potent mixture of hydrochloric and nitric acids) also came down on the stones, and, remarkably enough, although the stopper was broken sheer off, the jar was otherwise uninjured. And among the débris of our belongings the six oxen plunged and cavorted, and by the time we had cut them clear everything was stamped flat.... But the cart! It was a mass of splinters, the disselboom in fragments, and the whole of the forepart wrecked, the ironwork twisted and broken, and practically nothing intact but the wheels. At first sight it appeared impossible to ever make a cart of it again, even if we had a whole waggon-builder’s staff and tools at our disposal; as for doing it in Hell’s Kloof, the idea was preposterous.
So we called philosophy to our aid, and sat down and had some grub by the ruins, our police friendsbidding us good-bye and riding on ahead to look for the dead man. And looking at the melancholy wreckage, we got vicious—that blessed cart had let us down badly at Brakfontein, and again it had chosen a remote spot to turn and rend us! And Poulley, after some unpublishable remarks, said, “I’m not going to be beat by that blamed one-horse shay. I’m going to mend it, or bust!”
Ransson filled his pipe and grunted and waded in to put the pieces together, and seeing that they would not be disheartened, I got my pony and rode back to the old deserted mine at Numees, where I had noticed several old crowbars lying about at the mouth of the adit. They were about 5 feet long, and heavy and strong, and might serve to lash together the splintered disselboom, for there was not a stick of straight wood big enough to cut a new one within days of us. And by dint of lashing, screwing, nailing, and patching for hours, we at length got the ruins to look something like a cart again, and could chance trekking. The oxen rested all these hours, and as the moon would be high and bright we decided to trek all night, and being utterly reckless now, we did the rest of the journey at top speed. We took risk after risk, but our luck held, and also the lashings, and towards morning we found ourselves again in the sands of Dabee River. We were dog-tired, but full of curiosity as to where our new guide would take us. Would it be under the big white reef in the ravine to the left, where I had always wished to try, or in the gully a mile eastward, where Ransson had always believed it to be?
On we went by the light of the now sinking moon, over the white sand, where the waggon spoor of our last trip lay distinct and fresh, between the dark and solemn mountains, passing unexplored and mysterious ravines we had never penetrated, on and on over the old spoor, till at last our guide, who was leading, held up his hand for us to stop.
It was the spot—the same spot we had worked at before, after all!...
We were too tired even to swear, but flung off our saddles and slept like logs, where we fell.
When we woke we found that Poulley’s head was within a foot of a tiny bush in which lay coiled the biggest puff-adder I have ever seen, so big indeed, and so strangely marked, that I believe it to have been a new variety.
Our guide smiled superiorly when we showed him the work we had done on our previous visit, and said he would find us nuggets in less than no time! So we gave him all the “boys” and told him to go to work and find them; but though we ourselves again searched, washed, and prospected most thoroughly for several days, neither he nor we could find the slightest trace of gold! The day after our arrival, the two police with their guide passed our camp on their way back, having failed to find the body they were searching for. They were surprised to see us, as they had believed it impossible to mend the cart and bring it over such a track. They were glad to replenish their water-bottles, for they had found no water and had anticipated a thirsty ride back. The body of the unfortunate Hottentot was eventually found within half a mile of where we were camped, and the fact that he died of thirst brought home to us very vividly the dangers of these terrible mountains. Once lost in them without water, and death is almost certain ... yet water exists here and there, and, terribly enough, this poor native was within half an hour of plenty of it when he died of thirst—had he only known the spot.
We had been very short of water on our previous visit here, and as the summer was now in full swing and most of the water-holes dry, we had been anxious on this point, but our guide to the gold (?) had also assured us that he knew of a fine fountain of water near the spot—and in this respect he was right. For after the first day’s failure in gold-seeking we thought we had better make sure of the far more important question of water, and asked him to take us to it. Riding up one of the tortuous ravines, he led ushigher and higher up the mountains, and I confess that I became more sceptical at every yard. But at length he brought us to a most curious and beautiful spot. The gully leading to it gradually narrowed and became more thickly bushed, and we were now near the mountain-top. Suddenly, after an abrupt turn, the ravine widened out into a brilliant patch of luscious green grass surrounded by tall mimosa-thorns full of fragrant yellow blossom, and hemmed in by almost vertical rocks. At the far end some disruption of nature had thrown a huge bed of conglomerate across the gap; this mass was partly overhanging, and from its under-part dripped beautiful clear water, into a long dark pool below.
The whole of the rock face was a mass of beautiful maidenhair ferns, from the fronds of which dripped the water, ice-cool and as clear as crystals. The spot would be wonderful and beautiful even in a well-watered country; but here, amongst scorching sands and blistering mountains, where men died of thirst, it seemed little short of miraculous. So well hidden is it that, unless shown the spot, one might pass within a few yards of it and never dream that water was near. Except our guide, none of the other natives knew of the place. He called itKi-Ka-Kam—“Great Water” in Bushman.
A week of hard work having proved without a doubt that there were no more nuggets left in Dabee River, we put some more lashings on the cart, shod our horses—which had been footsore from the blistering heat of rock and sand—and started back towards Kuboos a few days before Christmas.
The heat was very great, and as we had doubts as to the cart’s safe passage back through Hell’s Kloof, Ransson and I divided the dynamite, each carrying about ten pounds on our saddles.
By noonday the sun beat down with such power that it was impossible to bear one’s hand on the rifle-barrel; and as the bag of dynamite hanging at the saddle banged and flopped about in a very alarming manner, I could not help remembering the instructionson each cartridge—“Not to be exposed to the rays of a tropical sun.”
Ransson and Poulley were miles ahead, and once or twice, as the bag seemed to smoke, I felt inclined to untie it and “forget” to bring it along, but I knew Ransson wouldn’t do so, and so I decided to wait and see if he blew up first. By the time we got into Hell’s Kloof the air was simply sizzling, and I rode with shut eyes, trying to keep myself cool by thinking of the snow in England at Christmas, and wishing I were sitting deep in it instead of in a red-hot saddle there in Namaqualand. Just then there came a terrific bang from ahead of me.
“Great Scott!” I thought, as my old nag shied and nearly bucked me off, “that’s poor old Ransson gone—and he’s got my pipe.”
My rifle-butt hit the dynamite an awful whack as the pony pawed round trying to get rid of me; and altogether I was by no means dull for a minute or two. Then Poulley came running up the path towards me.
“Ransson?” I gasped. “Has he bust?”
“Bust be hanged!” he snorted. “Wish he had! Fired at a buck, a fine, fat, juicy klipbok, and missed it clean, at twenty yards! It’s gone up this gully. Get off, you fathead, and come on! We must get him for our Christmas dinner!”
Behold me, then, forgetting snow, forgetting heat, forgetting both dynamite and Fahrenheit—for we did want buck-meat badly—and leaving the old nag to wander at will and get itself blown to smithereens if need be, I climbed down and chased after Poulley, already panting his perspiring way up the steep side-gully. What idiots we were, to be sure—that buck simply laughed at us! We must have chased him for fully two hours, but at length we had to give him best. No roast buck for that Christmas, and, sadder and thirstier men, we had to scramble our way back into the alleged path where we had left our horses. When we got down into the oven-like gully again Ransson stood holding the two nags andsmoking ruminatingly. “It hasn’t gone off yet,” he said—which was pretty obvious.
We got through the kloof at length and off-saddled, gingerly removing the dynamite to some distance, and covering it withmelkbosch, for the only shade within about twenty miles at that time was given by a solitaryAloe dichotomathat stands at the entrance to the pass, and under whose square yard of shadow we all three had to squat.
The heat was so great that the oxen, when outspanned, made no effort to move, but simply stood in their tracks, lifting one foot after another from the burning sand.
We arrived at Kuboos on Christmas Eve, and decided to at least rest on Christmas Day before starting again.
We wanted meat badly, but the natives would not kill a sheep on Christmas Eve, and it began to look like a Christmas dinner of sardines and bully beef.
But Christmas morning brought us luck, for the granite rocks were covered with pigeons, and the twenty-odd that Poulley shot saved the situation. Of them, with a scrap of bacon and some tinned peas, we made a gorgeous stew: we had raisins and currants in the waggon, saved for this very occasion, and made a very creditable pudding in a prospecting-pan; we baked freshroster-kookand later we feasted right royally.
We had even a tot of brandy each from our “medical stores,” and as we had what is much more precious in Namaqualand—plenty of good water—and a shady tree to lie under, we had a splendid time, and altogether spent a far saner Christmas than we should have done in civilisation. The dissipation of Christmas over, we started for the conglomerates. To reach there a cart was out of the question; indeed, we were not at all sure that horses would be able to get through with anything like a pack. So we travelled light, walking most of the way, and striking south-east into the valley between the T’Houms Mountains. Huge granite boulders the size ofsuburban villas choked the valley as we penetrated farther, making progress extremely difficult and tedious, and nightfall found us still struggling in this unnamed ravine.
BoatLAUNCH OF THE “OUTRIGGER.”
LAUNCH OF THE “OUTRIGGER.”
LAUNCH OF THE “OUTRIGGER.”
Boat“OUTRIGGER” ON WHICH WE CROSSED TO THE GERMAN POST AT ZENDLING’S DRIFT.
“OUTRIGGER” ON WHICH WE CROSSED TO THE GERMAN POST AT ZENDLING’S DRIFT.
“OUTRIGGER” ON WHICH WE CROSSED TO THE GERMAN POST AT ZENDLING’S DRIFT.
Only well on to midday the next day did we leave it to clamber up a mountain slope as steep as a roof. Then came half a day of incessant effort, without a vestige of a path, to heights where a vast panorama of peaks lay spread beneath us, all of them nameless, untrodden, unknown. At length a game path was struck which led us to a lovely little pool of water surrounded by thick grass, and it would be hard to say which of the two our ponies enjoyed the more. Late in the day, and after severe clambering, we reached a peak and looked down into a basin below, completely surrounded by almost precipitous walls of conglomerate. It was our “plum,” the place we believed would make our fortunes; and plunging down the precipitous slope at imminent risk of breaking our necks, we found ourselves at the tiny pool of water known as “Quagga,” where we intended making our camp. There was a sufficiency of water, though it was getting black and smelt bad, and by it we rigged up a few bushes as a bivouac—for we brought no tent.
Our hopes were high, for, as I have before mentioned superficially, the conglomerates were identical with the Randbanket; but again we were doomed to disappointment, many days of most laborious work, crushing and panning bed after bed, utterly failing to find even a “colour.”
At length a nugget the size of a pin’s head rewarded us, and we decided that Ransson should remain at the spot and further test its possibilities, whilst Poulley and I would take a rapid trip round our former peggings.
As our stores were principally at Kuboos, from whence we occasionally got a mule-load over the extremely difficult mountain path, we travelled on the scantiest of rations, each man carrying a little tea, sugar, coffee, and meal on his saddle, and dependingon our guns for anything more substantial. The difficult ravine which we had previously traversed by moonlight was safely negotiated, though daylight showed us that it was every whit as formidable as we had imagined. We passed the night at the tiny pool of water below the big copper nugget, and as we had seen no sign of game, our supper was not a heavy one. Next day we were off well before sun-up, anxious to shoot something for the pot, but it was not till late in the afternoon that Poulley spotted aklompof springbok on the sandy, kopje-studded plains over which we were now travelling. The wavering mirage made shooting difficult, but at length he bagged one, and we slung it over the saddle and hurried on, for we were belated, and wished to reach the Orange before dark. We cut into a sand-river that looked like bringing us out by the Tatas Berg, but it turned out to be more than usually tortuous, and it was late at night when we reached the welcome river. Too tired to eat, we did not take the precaution to clean the buck, with the result that, getting up ravenous the next morning, and longing for a good buck steak, we found our hard-earned quarry green, putrid, and quite uneatable. Even Sam, the “boy” with us, could not face it, and as we were extremely sharp-set, and longing for something other than heavyroster-kook, I suggested dynamiting a pool for fish.
So we stripped, and I threw a charge with a short fuse and detonator into a deep-looking pool near by. As usual, however, there was little to show for such a splash—nothing, in fact, but half a dozen springers, the size of herrings.
I was busily swimming about, catching these and throwing them to Poulley on the bank. Suddenly he crouched down.
“Hush!” he said. “Bob your head under, or pretend to be a rock or something—there’s a wild goose!” And he hopped off to the trees where the guns lay, doing good time, considering he was Adam-naked and the ground was covered in thorns.
Meanwhile I tried to look as much like a rock aspossible, for wild geese are the most wary of birds, and I floated round with little but my nose above the water, mentally cooking that goose, and eating him without sage and onions. Then Poulley came creeping back with the gun, and started out on a spit of rock towards the rapids. Then I heard the goose “get up and get,” and saw it going down beyond a small island the wrong side of the rapids—within easy range, if we could only get to the island.
Poulley beckoned me and said, “You swim better’n I do—wade across and get it.” And, like an ass, I thought I could. The rapids looked little more than fifty yards of waist-deep water, though lower down the whole width of the river was a mass of broken foam, and I thought that, with a long pole to steady me, I could get over easily. So I got a stick and my hat, and started. I put the pole in, and one leg up to the knee, and immediately found the current much stronger than I expected; a second step, and I was thigh-deep on a slippery rock, and trying to lean upstream to counteract the force of the water; a third—and I was engulfed in a whirling torrent, and well on my way to the Atlantic. I kept the gun above water instinctively, and spinning like a top, my head also came above water, giving me a glimpse of Poulley staring open-mouthed at me from the bank, which was already well behind, whilst the water dragged and buffeted me, striking me against rock after rock. I was handicapped by the gun, which I did not wish to lose; but realising that in a few more seconds I should be in the main rapids, and that it was better to lose the gun than my life, I was just about to let it go, when I brought up violently against a rock well out of water and was able to grab a projecting point. I hung on and got the gun out, and eventually dragged myself out of the swift current on to the rock, whence I was able to make my way to a point near enough the bank for Poulley to throw me a rope and help me out again.
I was cut, scratched, and bruised very badly, but thankful to be alive at all, for had I been swept but afew inches farther from the rock, I must have lost my life; as it was I lost my hat—no light loss in the middle of summer in Namaqualand. It taught me a lesson—never to attempt wading even the most innocent-looking rapid in the Orange.
Meanwhile we also lost the goose, and for the next few days our rations were extremely scanty, an occasional dassie or small turtle-dove—as tough as leather—being all we were able to shoot.
A week spent in the grand gorges and on the precipitous peaks of the little-known Tatas Berg found us an abundance of copper indications, but never a buck, and we started our return journey to Zendling’s Drift, by this time almost rationless, our coffee and sugar gone, our tobacco likewise, and a few handfuls of meal and a little tea our only standby. And still the game fought shy of us. There were numerous small birds in every tree, brilliant of plumage and of infinite variety, but absolutely nothing to warrant a charge of “No. 6.” Occasionally a majestic fish-eagle would sail away from the top of a dead tree to a similar perch across the river, and dozens of grey monkeys chattered at us from the topmost branches ofcameel-doornand willow; here and there a huge leguaan (that monster of lizards, 6 or 7 feet in length), belonging to the monitor species, would plunge from the bank into the water, and baboons hooted at us the live-long day from the rocks above; but none of these appealed to us—as food.
One incandescent day, when we had bathed and were lolling for a midday spell on a patch of emerald sward near !!Ariep!!, we were lucky enough to witness a scene I am never likely to forget, and would not have missed for anything. Here the river is particularly beautiful; there are numerous small islands, covered with dense thickets of reeds, that are a favourite feeding-place for the few hippo still left in the Orange. Some of them are well wooded with high willows of a particularly vivid green, and on the overhanging branch of one of these I saw ababoon appear, clamber out to the extremity, stand up at full height, and dive into the deep pool beneath just as a man would do. He was followed by another and another, until there were at least a score of them climbing, diving, swimming to the bank, and up the tree again, in an endless chain, splashing each other, and enjoying themselves exactly like a crowd of schoolboys.
On the third day the sky became overcast, but we had been so long without seeing rain that we disregarded the signs of its coming. Late that evening we arrived at our old camp beneath the willows, opposite the “Ki-man” rock, the long stretch of still water a pool of liquid fire from the reflection of a most lurid and threatening sunset.
The finely powdered silt made a soft bed, and I slept well, but I awoke to find the rain coming down in sheets, and everything we had soaking wet. The willows were useless as shelter, and the silt soon became a peculiarly slimy and tenacious mud. Daylight came and still it poured; our saddles were like wet brown paper, and we decided to wait where we were till the weather changed. To pass the time, we again exploded a big charge of dynamite as near to the “Ki-man” rock as we could throw it, but no “Groot Slang” appeared. Utterly bored, and already longing for the sun we had grumbled at for months, we sent the “boy” for the horses, resolving to trek, rain or no rain, when suddenly a big troop of baboons appeared on the top of a precipitous kopje above us, and commenced turning the stones over for the scorpions on which they often feed. Almost immediately came a terrific outburst of grunts, barks, yells, and screams, and we saw them flying in all directions, leaving one of the younger ones in the clutch of a fine big leopard. It shook its prey for a moment like a cat shakes a rat, and with a bound disappeared behind a rock near the summit of the peak.
Poulley grabbed the gun. “I’m going up to gethim,” he said, jamming in the cartridges.
“He’s more likely to get you,” I warned him, but he was too wet and wild to take any notice of me, and of course I could not let him go alone. So in the pouring rain we two abject idiots started climbing up an almost vertical precipice, the rocks slippery and treacherous with the wet, and giving the most precarious foothold in the best of places. Poulley was ahead with the combination gun; I followed with my heavy Webley revolver. How we got up I hardly know; every time my leader dislodged a stone it had to come my way, and once or twice big ones weighing a hundredweight missed me by inches. I would have given a good deal to turn back, but on he kept till he reached the spot where the leopard had taken his prey. What would have happened had it still been there I am at a loss to say, for we could not have used our weapons without imminent risk of shooting each other, to say nothing of falling several hundred feet. Luckily, however, he had gone, and I, at any rate, was profoundly thankful.
So we came down and saddled up and started again, and all that miserable day it rained, and all that night and all the next day, making the difficulties of the track double, for the rocks were so slippery with the slimy silt that it was almost impossible to stand on them, and the horses floundered as though shod with roller-skates. We had nothing to eat but mealie pap, for our meal was too sodden to make the more comfortingroster-kook, even when we succeeded in making a fire. On the morning when we arrived in sight of Zendling’s Drift there was a gleam or two of sunshine, but the banking-up of enormous thunder-clouds showed that we were in for something worse than we had had, and we hurried on to try, if possible, to get where the trees were thick and we might rig up some kind of shelter.
I was ahead with the gun to try and get something for the pot, and was within a mile of the drift when the first big drops began to fall. Then came a flash of lightning, and, though I galloped, by the time I got to the drift I was in the midst of the most terrificthunderstorm I have ever experienced. The rain fell in sheets and the crash of the thunder was continuous, whilst all around the forked lightning stabbed and flickered and lit the murk with an incessant play of flame. The trees were worse than useless, and the water ran in at my shirt-collar and out of my boots, as for two hours I stood by my frightened horse and waited for the storm to abate, and hoped that we should not get struck—but doubted!
Then Poulley came up half drowned, and with the “boy” in a state of the most abject terror. As soon as they reached me he threw himself on the ground and hid his face, cringing and muttering at every peal and flinching at every flash. Below, the river was rising fast, and between the peals of thunder the rush of the rapids could be heard joining with the howling of the wind and the swish of the rain in a monstrous symphony.
At length there was a slight abatement, the clouds lifted somewhat and we could see Jackal’s Berg, a mile or so away, and the play of the lightning on the enormous iron reef that forms its “backbone” was a sight never to be forgotten. The lull was but temporary, and again the storm burst upon us with awful force, and it was nearly sunset when the heavy batteries moved slowly away towards the distant mountains, leaving us like drowned rats, but unhurt.
Our mealie meal was a mass of sodden pap, our little remaining tea spoiled, and our sole ration a solitary tin of sardines, not much amongst three hungry men. Our matches, too, were sodden, and but for the “boy’s” flint and steel we should have been in a bad plight; but he soon recovered from his scare and made us a roaring fire, for wood was plentiful.
With the lifting of the clouds we at once saw that since my last visit the Germans had built quite an imposing-looking station, with a good many rooms in it, over which the German flag was trying to fly in spite of its drenched condition. We slept as near the huge fire as possible, but in the night it rainedagain, and our discomfort was added to by the fact that we were still hungry and had little hope of food for the morrow.
In the morning we found a few miserable Hottentots crouching in wetpondhoeksnear the drift, and tried to buy a goat from them, but they would not sell; and we were just debating whether we should not take one by force when a flock of pigeons saved the situation—and the goat. Then a brace of “pheasants” (the lesser bustard) came Poulley’s way, and we were in clover.
Here Poulley left me to ride to Port Nolloth and Cape Town, whilst I returned alone over the mountain to Ransson. He had been unable to locate a single speck of gold further than the one we had found before leaving, and we reluctantly decided to abandon the conglomerate—though I am still of the opinion that some of the innumerable beds or reefs there will eventually be found to be auriferous.
The water at “Quagga” was by this time almost putrid, and as some Hottentots had now appeared on the scene with a large flock of sheep and some cattle which fouled and further diminished the supply every day, we spent several days in exploring the many deep ravines and kloofs in the hope of finding other water-holes. One day, whilst thus engaged, Ransson had an adventure which might have proved very serious. He had descended a deep and narrow defile leading down from an old watercourse in the mountains. As he got deeper the gorge narrowed until it became a veritable cañon, gloomy, dark, and profound. The walls were in places barely 6 feet apart, and towered up on either hand perpendicularly for many hundreds of feet, and the whole of this deep rent or crack in the earth—for it was little more—was worn ice-smooth by the action of water. It was towards evening, and only a little light filtered into the place. Here and there came a straight drop of 8 or 10 feet, and it was after negotiating several of these that Ransson, peering down, caught sight of the tops of some rushes in a wider spacebelow, and knew he was near water. He swung himself down another abrupt narrow place, and suddenly became aware of a strong bestial smell. He cocked his rifle, and peered into the gloom, and his eyes, gradually becoming accustomed to it, showed him that he was in the midst of a big troop of huge baboons. They were absolutely motionless, watching him; they were on every hand, on every projection of rock, above him, below him, before him, and behind him, for he had passed some of them without seeing them, and so near were several that he could have touched them with his rifle. And there they sat, as still as statues, and glared at him; and Ransson said that it was one of his most uncanny experiences to see all those pairs of eyes glowering on him in the gloom. To shoot would probably have meant being torn limb from limb; to turn his back on them and climb the slippery rock would have left him at their mercy; to go on was impossible, as there was a sheer drop of 20 feet into the water. In this dilemma he did quite mechanically what he could not have bettered by hours of thinking, for he pulled out his matches and lit his pipe. And as the little flame flickered up one of the big baboons—they are huge fellows in these mountains—gave a hoarse, grunting call, and away the whole troop fled, actually brushing against Ransson as they did so, clambering up the almost vertical rocks, and disappearing almost instantly.
I went to the spot the following day, taking a rope with me and a “boy,” whilst Ransson tried to reach the other end of the gorge by a circuitous route. Making fast the rope, I easily got down to the rushes, and found an abundance of water in this hollow place, which was circular and wider than the ravine, and the walls of which overhung.
At the far extremity the ravine continued downward in a cleft of about 8 feet wide, and I burst through the reeds and looked down. Below was another basin, nearly full of black water; it looked very deep, and its overhanging sides were so smooththat had a man fallen in he could never have got out. Altogether it was a gruesome-looking spot, for the sun at noonday only sent a few flickering rays into the ravine above, and never reached the black, dead water. Beyond the smooth lip of this big basin the ravine fell sheer for two or three hundred feet, and further progress was out of the question.
A day’s ride due east from Quagga, in country quite unknown to any of our “boys,” we located another fine water-hole. We wished to attempt to reach the Orange in that direction, but the “boys” said we should never get through the mountains. There was the usual tale of no water, though one of them said his father had told him of a spot in that direction where there was a bigfontein, but no one had been there for years, and that it wasverloren(lost). It was useless taking the “boys,” so Ransson and I set out with our ponies and two days’ water, to attempt to find a way through.
Late in the afternoon we climbed the last rise that hid our view to the east, and saw below us a long valley widening in the distance and flanked by abrupt and lofty peaks. The range to the left was continuous and almost vertical, leading to the serried peaks directly ahead that hid the Orange. We got down a breakneck slope into this valley, and found the usual sand-river that made fairly easy going. As usual there was no vestige of a trail, the whole land being apparently devoid even of animal life, silent, deserted, melancholy. We followed the sand-river till nightfall, and slept on its clean soft bed; and we hoped by following it patiently we should surely come to the Orange, but just after our start in the morning it branched in several directions. Whilst uncertain which to follow, we came upon the spoor of a naked foot, old, but showing up clear and fresh in the sand, and so unusual a find, in this deserted country, that we gazed upon it with something like the feelings of Robinson Crusoe on a like occasion. As in all probability it would lead us to the river or to other water, we decided to follow it.It led us on for hours, up branch-ravines we should never have thought of entering, and at length into a narrow gap in the abrupt wall of mountains. At the mouth of this gap we found the “Lost Water” that Klaas had heard of, a beautiful little pool of clear spring-water surrounded by reeds and a tree or two, an ideal little oasis in the desert. But, with the exception of the solitary and obviously old spoor that led us to it, there was no sign that the place had been visited for many years. The only indication that man had ever been there before were a few bleached and gnawed human bones under the biggest tree—possibly those of him who had made the spoor!
The valley was full of good grass, there was sufficient water for a good herd of cattle, but the whole land lay deserted. Probably the fact that the valley is hemmed in by mountains on all sides keeps the Hottentots from visiting it, and there are many such spots in this little-known region. Having found the water, we pushed on for the Orange, though as we approached the mountains that hemmed it in I began to despair of ever getting through, so rugged and precipitous were they. Our only hope was to follow the principal dry river-bed, though these often end in acul-de-sac. But our luck held, and after interminable twisting and turning in what was surely the most tortuous ravine of all this labyrinth, getting gradually into the heart of the mountains, and being confronted, time after time, with a seemingly impassable barrier, we suddenly found the narrow passage blocked by a bank of dry silt 15 or more feet in height. Over this a sheer precipice faced us, seemingly but a few yards distant, and it appeared that the Orange must be beyond it, and that we must seek another path. But, scrambling up the silt, we saw dense trees immediately below us and heard the song of birds again, and within a few yards had burst through the undergrowth and were on the bank of the river. The precipice was on the farther side, in German territory, a sheer mountain face rising abruptly from the water, which at this spot was scarce a hundred yardsfrom bank to bank. The narrow belt of vegetation on either bank had scarce clinging room, and above rose the wall of mountains. Much of the rock was crystalline limestone, beautiful marble, white and pink, whole mountains of it. The narrow belt of trees was extremely hard to break through, though old blaze marks on certain big trees showed we were not the first to visit the spot, as we well might have been. There were leopard spoors everywhere, and whole troops of baboons on the rocks above. We made our horses fast on a patch of grass and worked our way along the bank for a mile or so, but as far as we could see no other outlet pierced the cliffs on our side of the river, and upstream our way was soon blocked by a place where vegetation ended and the vertical cliff overhung the black water. The spot, though beautiful, had something awe-inspiring about it: the sight of this big body of water, silent, lonely, and mysterious, flowing from unknown reaches, pent in between these gigantic walls, and so hidden in this land of thirst through which it flows that the wayfarer might well die of thirst within a few hundred yards of it, appealed strongly to the imagination of men who, like ourselves, had the fear of thirst and the anxiety of constantly searching for water always before them.
We swam over to the German bank, where a bare 10 feet of soil clung to the base of the cliff. High up on the latter the marks of ancient floods showed that a rise of fully 40 feet above the present level had more than once occurred; and, remembering that heavy rainfall up-country might at any time bring a repetition, we resolved to get out into the open again as soon as possible. So we stayed but the one night, in the middle of which Ransson’s horse was cruelly mauled by a leopard, which meant that we had to walk most of the way back to “Quagga,” where we found the “boys” just organising a search-party to look for us. A jackal had haunted the camp every night we had been away, and they hadno doubt whatever that it was theK’nas, or spirit jackal, and that one of the party was doomed. To their horror Ransson said that for his part he believed the jackal was the doomed party, and, sure enough, that evening he shot the poor animal. Unfortunately, he did not bring it into camp, but left it lying about a hundred yards away, where he shot it, and in the morning it was gone. Probably a hyena had taken it, for both thestronte wolfand thetijger wolfare common in these mountains; but we could see no spoor, and of course this circumstance was a triumphal vindication of our “boys’” belief in the supernatural character of the visitor. They clucked and jabbered more than ever they had done, and were obviously scared out of their wits and likely to desert.
Old Klaas told us that in addition to the “Ghost Jackal,” these hills were the haunt of a big snake with the head of a goat, which devoured men. Many men had seen this snake, men he had known had been taken by it, and every Richtersfeldt Hottentot believed in it. According to Klaas, it had a playful little peculiarity of being able to emit a blast of air so strong that it would knock down a man whilst still many yards distant from it. It is in no way to be confounded with theKi-manof the “Groot Rivier,” which, as I have described, we had already sought the acquaintance of unsuccessfully. I asked Klaas if any trace of this goat-headed monstrosity had been seen around our camp, and he said, “No,” but they had heard it repeatedly for the last two days.
“Hark!” he said, a moment later; “there it is,” and the other “boys” stood in strained, listening attitudes, with fear written upon their faces. We listened too ... all we could hear being the deep cooing of the large speckled-breasted rock-pigeon. At least so it seemed to us. But Klaas would have none of our laughter; he said, in effect, that we were deaf as all white men were, and could not tell one sound from another; and truly deaf we were in contrast to these Hottentots, whose sight and hearing were marvellously acute. Anyhow, we got our gunsand tried to locate the sound, but could not; not a “boy” would follow us and we saw no pigeons, and the sound was so baffling that, though it never seemed far away, we had to give up without discovering what really made it. It is quite conceivable that very large rock-pythons still exist in these mountains, but we saw none, though some of the puff-adders were so huge as to almost point to their belonging to another species to the ordinary “puff.”
These and a large number of the small horned adder (Cerastus) and an occasional cobra were the only snakes, and all of these were greatly feared by our “boys.” They all carried an antidote to snake-bite in the shape of a few dried chips, twigs, and bark of a small shrub they callgif houd(poison-wood). On being bitten by snake or stung by spider or scorpion, they chew some of this, immediately applying some of the pulp to the wound, and swallowing the remainder. Peculiarly enough, they dread in particular the small sand-gecko, which is so numerous that at sunset its cricket-like chirrup is heard everywhere, and which all scientists assert to be harmless. But the Hottentots believe it to be deadly, and quote numerous cases of men being found dead with a sand-gecko in their clothes or blankets.
But to return to our gold-seeking, which we did day after day, whilst the water dwindled, as did our hopes. Not another speck of gold did we find, nor did any test that my small field laboratory allowed me to carry out give me any encouragement. The likeness to Randbanketwas remarkable, the important difference being that the gold was wanting. And convinced of this at last, and with an additional reason in the fact that we had lived for days on klipbok flesh alone, without bread, and short rations of nearly putrid water, we despondently packed up our gear and returned over the mountains to Kuboos.
Here I got letters, including certain instructions which sent me bucketing off again to Zendling’s Drift, accompanied only by Klaas, whilst Ransson and his henchman proceeded to a spot about twentymiles lower downstream. My work at Zendling’s concluded, I tried to rejoin him by following the river-bank; but after two days of cutting and hewing through densely tangled thorn scrub and fallen trees, I found that, with a horse at any rate, it was impossible to make a way through, and had reluctantly to make a long detour through the mountains. I was absolutely out of stores, and the last two days Klaas and I lived on a tin of jam and a small tin of rancid sardines, without bread or any substitute for it. And I was therefore glad to find Ransson with a steaming three-legged pot full of flamingo. He shot these each day with a rifle as they strutted on a sand-spit on the German side, for his stores were finished too, and we had no chance of replenishing. And there was still a good deal to be done. But good as the flamingoes tasted, they soon got shy and we were often extremely hard put to it, for there was no game near this spot. And so I came to actually enjoy dassie, and to forbear to turn my nose up at roasted leguaan’s tail, and to be thankful for a good many other weird dishes which I had, perhaps, better not particularise.
Varied as was our diet, however, our work was now monotonous, and, as it lay in ground already described, would be of little interest to the reader; and a few weeks later we returned to Port Nolloth and Cape Town. Before proceeding to the latter I travelled again to Steinkopf to endeavour to find out more of a certain big diamond that a native had once sold there for a waggon and a number of oxen, but could get no definite information, as the man had left the mission some time. Mr. Kling, however, promised to get me full information later; meanwhile he was confident upon one point: the stone had come from somewhere above the Great Falls, and my thoughts travelled back to Brydone’s story and the “pans” of the Kalahari.
Meanwhile these two long trips in the least-known part of Klein Namaqualand had made a profound impression upon me. True, we had tried in vain forgold, but we had been misled into frittering much valuable time away, and, considering the size of the region we had penetrated, we had, after all, barely scratched it. There were hundreds of reefs we had not even sampled, hundreds of gullies where the most promising-looking gravels lay deep and undisturbed, for we had been handicapped by the Namaqualander’s greatest handicap—want of water. Copper there was in bewildering abundance, galena, iron, and the other base metals on all hands, and in the few places where water had allowed of “panning” the results had often been surprising. But widely distributed as were these mineral riches, it was perfectly obvious that to exploit them to any advantage would mean a colossal scheme with a colossal capital.