inside its sheltering hood, who had been seated there all day long,
having started in their ball-dresses directly after breakfast! Mules
were in great request for draught purposes, and up to a point they
answered admirably, jogging along without distress over bad roads
which would soon have knocked up even the staunchest horses. But a
mule is such an unreliable animal, and his character for obstinacy is
thoroughly well deserved. When a mule, or a team of mules, stops on
a particularly sticky bit of road, no power on earth will move him,
and there is nothing for it but to await his good pleasure. I have,
two or three times, journeyed behind a team of sixteen mules, and I
always suffered great anxiety lest they should cease to respond to
the incessant cries of their “Cape-boy” driver, or the still more
persuasive arguments of his assistant, who bore quite a collection of
whips of different lengths for emergencies. Happily the roads were then
in fairly good order, and beyond a tendency to drop into a slow walk at
the slightest hill the mules behaved irreproachably.
Locomotion was the great difficulty in those days, and we
island-dwellers cannot easily realise the vast and trackless spaces
which lie between the specks of townships on a huge continent. Natal is
magnificently watered and grassed in the summer, but the big rivers are
not only a hindrance to journeying, but from a sanitary point of view
they are as undrinkable as the Nile, and probably for the same reasons.
Still, they are there, and future generations will doubtless use them
for irrigation and canals and all the needs of advancing civilisation.
In my day the Boer was quite an unconsidered factor, and we felt we
were performing a Quixotically generous action when, at his own earnest
entreaty, we took him and his debts and his native troubles on our own
shoulders in 1876. He was always extremely dirty, and about a thousand
years behind the rest of the civilised world in his ideas. His religion
was a superstition worthy of the Middle Ages, and his notions of
morality went a good deal further back than even those primitive times.
I confess the only Boer I ever was personally brought into contact
with seemed to me a delightful person! This is how it happened. Soon
after my arrival in Maritzburg, a bazaar was held in aid of some local
literary undertaking. Bazaars were happily of very rare occurrence in
those parts, and this one created quite an excitement and realised
an astonishingly large sum of money. The race-week had been chosen
for the purpose of catching customers among the numerous visitors to
Pietermaritzburg in that gay time, and the wiles employed seemed very
successful. I never heard how or why he got there, but I only know
that a stout, comfortable, well-to-do Dutch farmer suddenly appeared
at the door of the bazaar. He was, of course, at once assailed by
pretty flower-girls and lucky-bag bearers, and cigars and kittens
were promptly pressed on him. But the old gentleman had a plan and a
method of his own, on which he proceeded to act. He had not one single
syllable of English, so it was a case of deeds not words. He began at
the very first stall and worked his way all round. At each stall he
pointed to the biggest thing on it, and held out a handful of coins
in payment. He then shouldered his purchase as far as the next stall,
where he deposited it as a gift to the lady selling, bought her biggest
object, and went on round the hall on the same principle. When it came
to my turn he held out to me the largest wax-doll I ever beheld, and
carried off a huge and unwieldy doll’s house which entirely eclipsed
even his burly figure. My next door (or rather stall) neighbour had a
table full of glass and china, and she consequently viewed the approach
of this article of bazaar commerce with natural misgiving, but as our
ideal customer relieved her of a very large ugly breakfast set, she
managed to make room for the miniature house until she could arrange
a raffle and so get rid of it. The last I saw of that Boer, who must
have contributed largely to our receipts, was his leading a very small
donkey, which he had just bought at the last stall, away by a blue
ribbon halter. I believe it was the only “object” in the whole bazaar
which could have possibly been of the slightest practical use to him,
but the contrast between the weak-kneed and frivolously attired donkey
and its sturdy purchaser was irresistibly comic. No one seemed to know
in the least who he was, but we supposed he must have come down for the
races and backed the winners very successfully.
Our little house stood on a hill about a mile from Maritzburg, and,
remembering the formation of the surrounding country, one realises
how badly the towns in Natal, and probably all over South Africa, are
placed for purposes of defence. Every town, or even little hamlet
or township, which I ever saw, stood in the middle of a wide plain
with low hills all round it, so it is easy for me to realise how
soon cannon planted on those hills would wreck buildings. There was
a great and agreeable difference in the temperature, however, up on
that little hill, but towards the close of the dry winter season the
water-supply became an anxiety. In spite of the extremely cold nights
up there, any plant for which I could spare a daily pail of water
blossomed beautifully all through the winter. I was advised to select
my favourite rose-bushes before the summer rains had ceased, and to
have the baths of the family emptied over them every day, which I did
with perfect success, and was even able to include some azaleas and
camellias in the list of the favoured shrubs.
I was much struck with the rapid growth of trees in Natal, and it was
astonishing to see the height and solidity of trees planted only ten
years before, especially the eucalyptus. But grass walks or lawns are
much discouraged in a garden on account of the facility they afford
as cover for snakes, and red paths and open spaces are to be seen
everywhere instead. Even the lawn-tennis of that day was played on
smooth courts of firmly stamped and rolled red clay. I wonder how the
golf-players manage, for play they do I am certain, as nothing ever
induces either a golfer or a cricketer to forego his game.
One morning, very early, I was taken to the market, and it certainly
was an extraordinary sight. The market-place is always one of the
most salient features of a South African town, and is the centre of
local gossip, just as is the “bazaar” of the East. It was an immense
open space thronged with buyers and sellers; whites, Kaffirs, coolies,
emigrants from St. Helena, and many onlookers like myself. It was all
under Government control and seemed very well managed. There were
official inspectors of the meat offered for sale, and duly authorised
weights and scales, round which surged a vociferous crowd. I was
specially invited to view the butter sent down from the Boer farms up
country, and I cannot say it was an appetising sight. A huge hide, very
indifferently tanned, was unrolled for my edification, and it certainly
contained a substance distantly resembling butter, packed into it, but
apparently at widely differing intervals of time. The condiment was
of various colours, and—how shall I put it?—strengths; milk-sieves
appeared also to have been unknown at that farm, for cows’ hair formed
a noticeable component part of that mass of butter. However, I was
assured that it found ready and willing purchasers, even at four
shillings a pound, and that it was quite possible to remake it, as it
were, and subject it to a purifying process. I confess I felt thankful
that the butter my small family consumed was made under my own eyes.
Waggons laden with firewood were very conspicuous, and their loads
disappeared rapidly, as did also piles of lucerne and other green
forage. There was but little poultry for sale, and very few vegetables.
I remember noticing in all the little excursions I made, within some
twenty miles of Maritzburg, how different the Natal colonist, at
least of those days, was from the Australian or New Zealand pioneer.
At various farmhouses where there was plenty of evidence of a kind
of rough and ready prosperity, and much open-handed hospitality and
friendliness, there would be only preserved milk and tinned butter
available. Now these two items must have indeed been costly by the
time they reached the farms I speak of. Yet there were herds of cattle
grazing around. Nor would there be poultry of any sort forthcoming,
nor a sign of a garden. Of course, it was not my place to criticise;
but if I ventured on a question, I was always told, “Oh, labour is
so difficult to get. You know, the Kaffirs won’t work.” I longed to
suggest that the young people I saw lounging about might very well turn
to and lend a hand, at all events to start a poultry yard, or dairy, or
vegetable garden.
Now, at Fort Napier—the only fortified hill near Maritzburg—every
little hollow and ravine was utilised by the soldiers stationed there
as a garden. The men, of course, work in these little plots themselves
and grow beautiful vegetables. Potatoes and pumpkins, cabbages and
onions, only need to be planted to grow luxuriantly. Why cannot this
be done in the little farms around? I am afraid I took a selfish
interest in the question, as it was so difficult, and often impossible,
to procure even potatoes. Such things grow much more easily, I was
told, at Durban, so probably those difficulties have disappeared with
the opening of the railway—that very railway of which I saw the first
sod turned. My own attempt at a vegetable garden suffered from its
being perched on the top of a hill, where water was difficult to get;
but I was very successful with some poultry, in spite of having to wage
constant war against hawks and snakes.
How fortunate it is that one remembers the laughs of one’s past life
better than its tears! That morning visit to the Pietermaritzburg
market stands out distinctly in my memory chiefly on account of an
absurd incident I witnessed. I had been much interested and amused
looking round, not only at the strange and characteristic crowd, but
at my many acquaintances marketing for themselves. I had listened to
the shouts of the various auctioneers who were selling all manner of
heterogeneous wares, when I noticed some stalwart Kaffirs bearing on
their heads large open baskets filled entirely with coffee-pots of
every size and kind. Roughly speaking, there must have been something
like a hundred coffee-pots in those baskets. They were just leaving an
improvised auction-stand, and following them closely, with an air of
proud possession on his genial countenance, was a specially beloved
friend of my own, who I may mention, was also the beloved friend of all
who knew him. “Are _all_ those coffee-pots yours?” I inquired. “Yes,
indeed; I have just bought them,” he answered. “You must know I am a
collector of coffee-pots and have a great many already; but how lucky I
have been to pick up some one else’s collection as well, and so cheap
too!”
The Kaffirs were grinning, and there seemed a general air of amusement
about, which I could not at all understand until it was explained to me
later that my friend had just bought his own collection of coffee-pots.
His wife thought that the space they occupied in her store-room could
be better employed, and, believing that their owner would not attend
the market that day, had sent the whole lot down to be sold. She told
me afterwards that her dismay was indeed great when her Kaffirs brought
them back in triumph, announcing that the “Inkose” (chieftain) had
just bought them, so the poor lady had to pay the auctioneer’s fees,
and replace the coffee-pots on their shelves with what resignation she
could command.
One of my pleasantest memories of Natal, especially as seen by the
light of recent events, is of a visit I paid to the annual joint
encampment of the Natal Carabineers and the Durban Mounted Rifles. It
was only what would be called, I suppose, a flying camp, and the ground
chosen that year (August 1876) was on “Botha’s Flat,” halfway between
Maritzburg and Durban. I well remember how beautiful was the drive
from Maritzburg over the Inchanga Pass, and how workmanlike the little
encampment looked as I came upon it (after some break-neck driving),
with its small tents dotted on a green down.
Although one little knew it, that same encampment was the school where
were trained the men who have so lately shown the worth of the lessons
they were then learning. The whole training seemed practical and
admirable in the highest degree. It had to be carried out amid every
sort of difficulty, and, indeed, one might almost say discouragement.
In those distant days such bodies of volunteers were struggling on with
very little money, very little public interest or sympathy, and with
great difficulty on the part of the members of these plucky little
forces in obtaining leave for even this short annual drill. I was told
that both the corps were much stronger on paper, but that the absentees
could not be spared from the stores, or sugar estates, or offices to
which they belonged.
I had, much earlier in the year, at our midsummer, in fact, seen
some excellent swimming drill at certain athletic sports held in the
little park at Maritzburg, through which a river runs. The keenest
competition on that occasion lay between these same Natal Carabineers
and a smart body of Mounted Police. The most difficult part of the
stream, with crumbling banks and mud-holes, was chosen, and at a given
signal they all plunged in on horseback, holding their carbines high
above their heads. In some cases the riders slipped off their horses
and swam by their side, mounting again directly the opposite bank
was gained; and I noticed how well trained were the horses, and how
at their master’s whistle they stood still to allow them to remount
instantly. How well this training has stood the test of practical
warfare let the late campaign tell. And we must also bear in mind that
all this training was going on nearly thirty years ago!
It was partly to show my own sympathy and interest in this same
movement that I accepted the invitation of the commandant to spend a
couple of nights at the camp and see what they were doing. A lonely
little inn hard by, where a tiny room could be secured for me, made
this excursion possible, and I can never forget some of the impressions
of that visit. When I read in the papers how splendidly the Natal
colonist came forward in the late campaign, even from the purely
military point of view, I remember that camp, and I understand that
I was then watching the forging of those links in our long imperial
chain. The men who came out so grandly as “soldiers of the Queen,” no
matter by what local names they might have been called, are probably
the sons of the stalwart volunteers I saw, but the teaching of that and
succeeding encampments has evidently borne good fruit.
It was indeed serious work they were all engaged on during those bright
winter days, and my visit was not allowed to interrupt for a moment
the drill which seemed to go on all through the daylight hours. What
helped to make the lesson so valuable to the earnest learners was, that
all went precisely as though a state of war existed. There were no
servants, no luxuries—all was exactly as it probably was in the late
campaign.
I dined at the officers’ mess that evening. Our table-cloth was of
canvas, our candles were tied to cross pieces of wood, and the food was
served in the tins in which it was cooked. Tea was our only beverage,
but the open air had made us all so hungry that everything seemed
delicious. It was, I remember, bitterly cold, and the slight tent did
not afford much shelter from the icy wind. How well I recollect my
great longing to wrap myself up in the one luxury of the camp—a large
and beautiful goatskin karosse on which I was seated! But that would
have been to betray my chilliness, which would never have done. We
separated somewhere about half-past eight—for we had dined as soon
as ever it got too dark to go on drilling—but not before the whole
encampment had assembled to sing “God save the Queen,” with all their
heart as well as with all their lungs,—a fitting finish to the day’s
work.
I had some other delightful rides in Natal, one especially on the
peaceful errand of a visit to a Wesleyan Mission station about a dozen
miles off at Edendale. It was a perfect winter’s day, and the road was
fairly good.
I have often wondered why our own beloved Mother Church employs
such slow and cumbrous machinery in dealing with native races. She
is apparently considering the subject in the time it takes for the
Baptists or Wesleyans to start a settlement. So long ago as 1851 a
certain James Allison, a Wesleyan missionary who had worked among the
Basuto and Amaswasi tribes, bought some six thousand acres hereabout
from old Pretorius, the Dutch President of Natal, and set to work to
teach the Kaffirs not only Christianity but citizenship. Now-a-days
there are two chapels and four schools, all built by the natives
themselves, as well as several Sunday Schools. In former days there had
also been an industrial school which had turned out capital artisans,
but the yearly grant of £100 from Government had been withdrawn before
my visit, and the school was in consequence closed. The existing
schools only receive fifty pounds a year from outside, and all the
other expenses of the flourishing little Mission are borne by the
people themselves. Such neat, comfortable brick houses and such gay
gardens, to say nothing of “provision grounds” full of potatoes,
pumpkins, and even green peas. Lots of poultry everywhere, and an
air of neat prosperity over everything. I was told there were many
excellent Norwegian Missions on the borders of Zululand, and I hope
they still flourish, for it is difficult to overrate the value of such
settlements as a factor in the spread of civilisation as well as in
that of Christianity.
But I had really only one long ride during my thirteen months in
Natal, and that was later in the same winter season, in fact, quite
at the end—in September. Five cruel months of absolutely dry weather
had reduced the roads to fine red powder, and the vegetation to
sun-dried hay, but still the air was beautiful and exhilarating as
we set forth—a little party of four, including a Kaffir guide—very
early one lovely morning. At first we headed for Edendale, but soon
left it on our right, and pushed on, before the sun got too hot, and
whilst our somewhat sorry steeds were fresh, for “Taylor’s”—a roadside
shanty twenty miles off. Our destination was a fine forest called
“Seven-mile Bush,” only fifty miles away but with several hill-ranges
to be crossed. Two hours’ bait started us again at 2 P.M. in good
fettle, and it was fairly easy going to Eland’s River, which we reached
at 4 o’clock, and where we off-saddled for half-an-hour. The rough
waggon-track which had been our only road had been steadily rising
ever since our first halt, and we were now amid beautiful undulating
downs with distant ranges ever in front of us. No sooner had we climbed
painfully over one saddle than another seemed to block our way, and I
confess my courage rather sank when, with twilight fast coming on and
the path getting steeper with every mile, I inquired of the guide how
far off we still were. Of course, my question had to be in pantomime,
and his answer—_five_ dips of his hand towards the hills—told me we had
yet five low ranges to cross.
The last few miles seemed a nightmare of stumbling up and down
break-neck places on tired horses in the dark, and the contrast of a
charming little house at last, with lights and blazing fires, was all
the more delightful. Indeed, it seemed to us, stumbling out of the
darkness and a chilling mist, that nothing short of Aladdin’s lamp
could at all account for the transport of all the nice furniture,
pictures, glass and china along such impassable tracks. However,
they were all there, and everything which goes to make up a pretty
and refined home besides, including a charming hostess and two rosy
children. We were waited on by Kaffir boys in long white garments,
looking for all the world like black-faced choristers. But after
gallons of tea and a capital supper, bed seemed the most attractive
suggestion, and many hours of dreamless sleep wiped away all fatigue
and started us off early next morning in splendid health and spirits to
explore the magnificent forest close by.
I have often thought that the three most distinct memories of beautiful
scenes, which must ever remain vividly before me, are, my first view
of the Himalayas, early one morning from the Grand Trunk Road, when I
complained that I could not see them, and discovered it was because I
had not looked half high enough. That was indeed a revelation of solemn
mountain grandeur. Next to it ranks the mighty sweep of the Niagara
river as you see it from the railway, and a few moments later behold it
thundering over the edge. And the third is that long, lonely morning in
the magnificent forest in the heart of Natal, the recollection of which
dwarfs all other trees to insignificance. The growth not only of giant
timber but of exquisite under-growth of ferns and delicate foliage was
indeed superb. Of flowers there were none, because the sun could not
enter those cathedral glades except at the very edge and outskirt where
the big trees had been felled.
I confess I should greatly have preferred to wander as far as I
dared, and looked longer into the old Elephant pits, and heard more
stories of the comparatively recent dates at which tigers, panthers,
and leopards could be met with. And I also wanted to go deep enough
among the overhanging _lianes_, or monkey-ropes as they call them,
to see, perchance, the great baboons swinging on them. But our host
evidently regarded his new saw-mill as the greatest point of interest,
and thither we betook ourselves—all too soon for my enjoyment. There,
indeed, one beheld a marvellous chaos of wheels and chains and saws,
which took hold of these same giant trunks and tossed them out and
passed them from one to the other, until they emerged, shaven and
shorn into the planks of every-day commerce. Very wonderful, no doubt,
and one asked one’s-self every moment, “how did these huge masses of
machinery get over that last range?” But still I feel that it was the
forest I came to see and I was only peeping into it.
However, next day I had a fine long ramble in it, and explored to my
heart’s content, but it was damp and drizzling, and so it remained
the day after that again, when we started very early for home. The
horses were quite fresh and rested, and carried us well, in spite of
the extreme slipperiness of the mountain tracks. Curiously enough as
soon as we got clear of the ranges we rode into the thickest fog I
have ever seen. We could only go at a slow walk in Indian file, with
the Kaffir leading, and every few minutes he got off his rough little
pony and patted the ground to _feel_ where we were. They said it was
a sea fog, but it wrapped us up as thoroughly as if it had been the
thickest of blankets, and one felt quite helpless. Certainly nothing
is so demoralising as a fog, and I never wish to repeat that morning’s
experience. We should have tumbled over “Taylor’s,” or rather passed
it, though it stood quite close to the track, if a cock had not
fortunately crowed, and the leading pony neighed in reply, calling
forth a chorus of barks from quite unseen dogs, who dared not venture
an inch from the sheltering porch.
Although my stay in Natal lasted very little over a year, I made many
friends there, and it is with sympathising regret I often saw in the
roll-call of her local defenders the familiar names of those whom I
remember as bright-eyed children. They have all sprung to arms in
defence of the fair land of their fathers’ adoption, and when the tale
of this crisis in the history of Natal comes to be written, the names
of her gallant young defenders will stand out on its pages in letters
of light, and the record of their noble deeds will serve as an example
for ever and for ever. So will they not have laid down their lives in
vain.
VI
“STELLA CLAVISQUE MARIS INDICI”
“The Star and the Key of the Indian Ocean” lay smiling before me on
Easter Sunday, April 1878.