The Author’s Tent takes Fire.—He loses every thing but his
Papers.—He is laid on a bed of Sickness.—Want of Medicine,
&c.—Reflections.—Whole Villages infected with Fever.—Abundance
of Game.—Extraordinary Shot at an Ostrich.—A Lion breakfasts
on his Wife.—Wonderful shooting Star.—Remarkable Mirage.—Game
and Lions plentiful.—The Ebony-tree.—Arrival at Bethany, a
Missionary Station.—The Trouble of a large Herd of Cattle.—A
thirsty Man’s Cogitation.—Curious Superstition.—The Damara
Cattle described.—People who live entirely without Water.—Cross
the Orange River.—Sterile Country.
The old adage, “Misfortunes never come singly,” was exemplified in my
case. The wound in my leg being now nearly healed, we were preparing to
leave Rehoboth, when one evening my hut accidentally caught fire, and,
being entirely constructed of dry grass and sticks, it was burnt to the
ground before any thing of moment could be saved. By rushing through the
flames, however, I fortunately succeeded in preserving the greater part
of my papers and memoranda, which to me were invaluable. I also rescued
my saddle; but, in so doing, my clothes took fire, and I had a very
narrow escape from being burnt to death. A shirt, a pair of trowsers, a
cap, and a pair of _under-done_ shoes, which had not been long enough
at the fire to be thoroughly roasted, were all that was left me. My
situation, consequently, was not very enviable. Through the kindness
of Messrs. Kleinschmidt and Vollmer, however, I was once more able to
appear decently appareled.
But I was soon destined to experience a greater calamity. A few stages
south of Rehoboth, which we left on the 22d of April, _en route_ to
the Cape, and while camped on the banks of the Hountop, I was attacked
by intermittent fever, which quickly carried me to the verge of the
grave. My sufferings and privations during this period were indeed
severe. Regularly every morning at eleven o’clock I was seized with a
violent shivering fit, which lasted three hours. Then came the fever,
of almost as long duration, accompanied by racking headache and profuse
perspiration. After this my head was tolerably free from pain, but I was
so completely exhausted that to turn in my bed was a laborious effort.
The climate, moreover, at this season was very trying; for, while the
days were moderately warm (the thermometer averaging 65° at noon), the
nights were piercingly cold and frosty. At sunrise the ice was from an
eighth part of an inch to one inch thick. I became very sensitive to
these changes, inasmuch as during the greater part of the illness I was
compelled to sleep in the open air, having previously disposed of our
wagons to the natives. What little medicine I once possessed was consumed
in the recent conflagration, and the missionaries—owing to the fever
having broken out most alarmingly among themselves and the natives—were
unable to spare me any. To add to my misfortunes, no suitable food was
procurable. Milk and meat were my only diet. The latter I could not
digest, and the former soon became insipid to my taste. The men, it is
true, had once the good fortune to surprise an ostrich in its nest, but
the eggs were too rich and heavy for my weak stomach.
Up to this period my busy and roving life had left me but little time
for serious reflection. Now, however, that the cares of the world
no longer occupied my thoughts, I felt the full force of my lonely
situation. During the long and sleepless nights I was often seized with
an indescribable sensation of sadness and melancholy. Death itself I did
not fear; but to perish in a foreign land, in the midst of strangers,
far away from all I loved, was an idea to which I could hardly reconcile
myself. What hand would close my eyes? what mourner would follow my
coffin? or what friend would shed a tear on my lonely and distant grave?
I was _alone_! Oh, may the reader never experience the full meaning of
that melancholy word!
After upward of two months of no ordinary sufferings, my strong
constitution prevailed, and I was convalescent; but several weeks elapsed
before I recovered my usual health and vigor.
John Allen was also seriously ill from the same malady, which had the
character of an epidemic, for in a very short time it spread like
wildfire throughout the length and breadth of Great Namaqua-land, and
vast numbers of people succumbed under it. The disease, indeed, was of
so destructive a nature that it swept off whole villages. In one kraal
in particular, all the inhabitants perished, and the cattle were left to
take care of themselves.
Fever (the cause of which is unknown) is not common in these parts, and
makes its appearance only occasionally.
We had pitched our tent, as already said, near the Hountop River. The
country thereabout was a succession of vleys or gulleys, then filled with
excellent clear water, teeming with water-fowl. Quails, birds of the
grouse tribe, and wood-pigeons, were also numerous. Of the larger animals
we had the zebra, the springbok, the ostrich, and an occasional oryx
and hartebeest; but, from their being much persecuted by the natives,
combined with nakedness of the country, they were extremely wary and
difficult of approach.
Game of many kinds being thus abundant, it may well be supposed that,
as soon as my strength permitted me to carry a gun, I at once took the
field, as well for amusement as for the purpose of replenishing our
larder, which was but very ill supplied.
One day I made a capital shot at an ostrich, which, when running at full
speed, I brought down at the long distance of two hundred and thirty
paces. On a previous occasion I killed one of these splendid birds when
upward of three hundred paces from me.
Another day I had the good fortune to shoot a rhinoceros. He was probably
a straggler, for these animals have long since disappeared from the part
of the country where we were then encamped, and, indeed, are now very
rarely to be met with south of the Kuisip River.
Early one morning one of our herdsmen came running up to us in great
fright, and announced that a lion was devouring a lioness! We thought
at first that the man must be mistaken; but his story was perfectly
true, and only her skull, the larger bones, and the skin were left. On
examining the ground more closely, the fresh remains of a young springbok
were also discovered. We therefore conjectured that the lion and lioness
being very hungry, and the antelope not proving a sufficient meal for
both, they had quarreled; and he, after killing his wife, had coolly
eaten her also. A most substantial breakfast it must have been!
On only one other occasion have I known lions to prey on each other. This
was when on my way to Lake Ngami. On a certain night we had badly wounded
a lion. He retreated growlingly into the bush, and immediately afterward
a whole troop of lions rushed upon their disabled brother and tore him to
pieces.
A singular and interesting atmospheric phenomenon occurred at Hountop.
Between seven and eight o’clock in the evening of the 24th of June, when
reading by the side of my bivouac fire, I was suddenly startled by the
whole atmosphere becoming brilliantly, nay, almost painfully illuminated.
On turning to the quarter of the heavens whence this radiance proceeded,
I discovered a most magnificent shooting star, passing _slowly_ in an
oblique direction through space, with an immense tail attached to it,
and emitting sparks of dazzling light. The fire by which I sat was
exceedingly bright, and the moon clear and brilliant, yet they were both
totally eclipsed by this immense body of light. Its great beauty and
brilliancy might perhaps be best realized by saying that it was like a
star of the second or third order when compared to the moon at full.
After a time, the pasturage being nearly exhausted in the neighborhood
of the Hountop, we removed our camp a few miles southward to another
periodical river called the Aamhoup. During our stay here we observed
some very striking and singular horizontal refractions of the air. Once
I saw an ostrich walking on the horizon line, while its double—clear and
well defined—appeared immediately above it. Both the ostrich and its
double, moreover, were divided into three different portions by as many
different strata of air.
Again: regularly every morning, for _nearly a month_, the projecting
ledge of a rock was converted into the semblance of a splendid and
embattled castle. As the atmosphere became uniformly heated, the mirage
melted away into a soft, watery haze.
In usual refractions the inverted image of an object generally appears
above the object itself, but occasionally the effect is reversed. Captain
Scoresby, the well-known Arctic navigator, once by these means discovered
his father’s vessel the day before it actually came in sight.
It has long puzzled the learned to account for the mirage. I believe,
however, it is now pretty well known to arise from the unequal density
and temperature of the lower strata of air.
The abundance of good water and pasturage had enabled our cattle to get
into excellent condition; and as the season was now far advanced, and I
was sufficiently well to travel, we deemed it necessary to move slowly
on toward the Cape Colony. Accordingly, on the 9th of July we left our
camp on the Aamhoup, a place where we had experienced both misery and
happiness.
Our course lay along and at the foot of a very picturesque range of table
hills, averaging about one thousand feet in height. To the westward were
also mountains of a similar nature, but less regular. They were of the
trap formation, and consisted chiefly of limestone.
Water continued for a time to be tolerably abundant, but pasturage began
soon to fail us. Two causes were to be assigned for this, namely, the
devastation of the locusts, and the inferior quality of the soil, which
became stony, interspersed here and there with ridges of sand.
Among the latter we encountered herds of gemsboks, and troops of lions
following on their scent. The mere sight of the tracks of the latter
frightened a friend with whom I was traveling almost out of his wits.
We were riding in advance of our cattle at the time, and it was with
difficulty that I could prevent him from returning with precipitation.
On the 4th of August we arrived in the neighborhood of another Rhenish
missionary station, called Bethany. Here we met with the ebony-tree, of
which I had only before seen a few stragglers in the Swakop River, near
the Usab gorge. Hence on to the Orange River this tree became more or
less abundant, but it was stunted and gnarled. Our bivouac fires usually
consisted of its wood.
While Hans and the men were busy preparing our food and camp for the
night, I strolled on to the station, which I found deserted by every
living creature. Only a short time previously the Rev. Mr. Knudsen
officiated here, but had been obliged to leave on account of some
disagreement with the native tribe and its chief, David Christian. It
had always been considered as inferior to most of the other missionary
stations in this part of Africa; but, what with the absence of the
inhabitants, the devastation of the locust—which had destroyed every
particle of vegetation—and the black and parched appearance of the soil,
it now looked wild and dreary in the extreme. The lengthened shadows of
evening threw an additional gloom over this once busy scene of cheerful
industry. Oh, changes, mysterious and incomprehensible! Surely God, in
his infinite wisdom, will not permit the handiwork of his servants,
raised only by years of perseverance, toil, and privations, to perish
without some recompense!
Bethany, if I am not mistaken, became a scene of missionary labor
as early as 1820. The enterprising and venerable Mr. Schmelen then
officiated here, but he found it necessary, after a time, to abandon the
place. Subsequently to his departure it remained deserted for upward of
twenty years, when, in 1843, it was once more tenanted, and this time by
Mr. Knudsen, who, in his turn, as seen above, was obliged to move off
elsewhere.
After leaving Bethany, water and pasturage became every day more scarce.
All the vleys and pools of rain-water were dried up. The Koanquip River,
however, long befriended us, as in its bed we generally managed to obtain
a supply of grass and water for our cattle, which now amounted to several
hundred head.
But the labor and fatigue of watering the latter was immense. No person
who has not been circumstanced as we were can form the least conception
of the trouble, care, and anxiety that a large drove of cattle occasions.
Perhaps, after having dug for _twenty consecutive hours_—and this I have
done more than once—the water is found insufficient in quantity, or
(which is almost as bad) the ground falls in, or the cattle themselves
spoil it by their wallowing and excrement.
These native cattle are the most troublesome and disgusting brutes
possible; for, after having spoiled the water by their own wildness and
wantonness, they rush furiously about, bellowing and moaning. It is
enough to discourage the stoutest heart.
When arriving at a place where we supposed water was to be found, the
plan usually adopted, in order to guard against the cattle destroying our
work, was to send them away to pasture. In the mean time, every available
man went speedily to work with such implements as were procurable:
spades, wooden troughs, pieces of wood or of bark, were indifferently put
in requisition; and even our hands were used with great effect, though
not without sustaining injury. Having worked the aperture of sufficient
depth and width, it was fenced in by thorn-bushes, leaving only a single
entrance. The oxen were then sent for, and allowed to approach singly
or in greater number, according to the extent of the water. Sometimes,
however, if the nature of the ground did not permit the cattle to have
access to the water, a hollow was scooped in the earth near the edge of
the pit, into which (or into a piece of sail-cloth, if at hand) the water
was poured by means of small wooden pails, usually denominated “bamboos.”
Owing to this tedious process, coupled with the slowness with which water
filters through sand, and the immense quantity (usually five or six
bucketsful) that a thirsty ox will drink, and the quarrelsome disposition
of the animals themselves, watering four hundred head of cattle will
often occupy a whole day or night; and, since a person is in a great
degree dependent on his cattle, whether for food, draft, &c., he himself
must never think of refreshment or rest until their wants have been
provided for.
The scarcity of water, and the uncertainty of finding it in these
parched regions is so great, that when, after a long day’s journey,
the anxiously-looked-for pool is found to be dry, it is almost enough
to drive a man mad, especially if he be a stranger to the country, and
unaccustomed to traversing the African wilds. One’s cogitations at such
times are apt to be something to the following effect. “If I advance
and do not find water within a certain period, it will be inevitable
destruction. To retrace my steps to the last watering-place is not to be
thought of, as, from the distance and the exhausted state of the cattle,
it would never be reached. What remains for me but to lie down and die?”
The common people at the Cape entertain a notion that cattle refrain from
feeding only once within the year, namely, on Christmas eve. Then, it is
affirmed, they fall on their knees, and with closed mouths and half-shut
eyes (a sign of placidity), silently thank the Giver of all good things
for the grass and water they have enjoyed during the past twelve months.
They say, moreover, that a person may witness this act of devotion by
keeping well to leeward and out of sight of the animals.[61]
Our cattle consisted chiefly of the Damara breed, which, so far as I am
aware, differs widely from any found in Europe. They are big-boned, but
not particularly weighty; their legs are slender, and they have small,
hard, and durable feet. The hair on the body is short, smooth, and
glossy, and the extremity of the tail is adorned with a tuft of long,
bushy hair, nearly touching the ground. This tuft constitutes the chief
ornament of the Damara assegai.
But the horns are the most remarkable feature of the Damara cattle. They
are usually placed on the head at an angle of from forty-five to ninety
degrees, and are at times beautifully arched and twisted, but rarely bent
inward. They are of an incredible length, and one often meets with oxen
the tips of whose horns are from seven to eight feet apart.
[Illustration: SKULL OF A BECHUANA OX.]
The Bechuana cattle (of greater bulk and stouter proportions) seem to
surpass the Damara cattle in this respect. Among many other curious and
interesting objects, there is now in the collection of Colonel Thomas
Steel, of Upper Brook Street, a perfect cranium of a young Bechuana
ox,[62] of which the wood-cut is a fair representation. The following are
its dimensions:
Entire length of horns from tip to tip along the curve 13 ft. 5 in.
Distance (straight) between the tips of the horns 8 8¼
Circumference of horns at the root 1 6½
Breadth of cranium between the eyes 0 9¼
Length ” ” ” 2 2
But I have been told on good authority that in some parts of Africa
horns of cattle are found greatly to exceed the above dimensions. The
horns, indeed, are of so enormous a size as seriously to inconvenience
the animal. Their length and weight have been known to be so great as
to twist the head to one side, one of the horns dragging on the ground,
while the other pointed upward.
The Damaras prize their oxen in proportion to the size of their horns.
Some African tribes take much pains in forming them of a certain shape.
This is effected either by sawing off the tips, splitting them, bending
them forcibly when yet tender, and so forth.
The Damara cow is of slender proportions and very wild. Before she can be
milked, it is always needful to lash her head to a tree, in like manner
as the Laplanders treat their reindeer, or to tie her hind legs together.
The best cow rarely gives more than two or three pints of milk daily,
and, should her calf die or be taken from her, she absolutely refuses to
give any at all, in which case it is necessary to resort to artificial
means. One plan is to stuff a calf-skin with hay or grass, and afterward
to place it on the ground for the cow to slobber over. Sometimes the
adoption of the latter expedient gives rise to ludicrous scenes; for the
cow, when tenderly caressing her supposed offspring, has all at once got
scent of the hay or grass, when, thrusting her snout into the skin, she
has greedily devoured its contents!
The Damaras, as well as other nations, take great delight in having whole
droves of cattle of the same color. The Namaquas have a perfect mania for
a uniform team. Bright brown is the favorite color; and I myself have
always found beasts of this hue to be the strongest and most generally
serviceable. Dark brown oxen with a yellowish streak along the back—by
the Dutch designated “geel-bak”—are also usually stout and enduring.
Yellow, and more especially white, oxen are considered weak, and unable
to bear much fatigue or hardship.
The Damaras, as with almost every other people of Southern Africa,
value their cattle next to their women, and take a pride in possessing
animals that look high bred. The ox, in fact, forms the chief theme of
the songs of the Damaras. They, moreover, rarely or never make use of a
handsome animal as a beast of burden, but employ quiet, ugly bulls for
such purposes. These have a buffalo look about them, and their horns,
moreover, rarely attain to any size.
From their quick step, good feet, and enduring powers, the Damara cattle
are much prized by the farmers of the Cape Colony. The only drawback is
their wildness and immense size of their horns, which they sometimes use
with fatal effect.
The day before we reached the Orange River we fell in with a kraal of
Hottentots, whom, to our great surprise, we found living in a locality
altogether destitute of water! The milk of their cows and goats supplied
its place. Their cattle, moreover, never obtained water, but found a
substitute in a kind of ice-plant (_mesembryanthemum_), of an exceedingly
succulent nature, which abounds in these regions. But our own oxen, not
accustomed to such diet, would rarely or never touch it. Until I had
actually convinced myself—as I had often the opportunity of doing at an
after period—that men and beasts could live entirely without water, I
should, perhaps, have had some difficulty in realizing this singular fact.
On the 21st of August we effected the passage of the Orange River in
safety at what is called the Zendlings Drift, or the missionary ford. We
had no boat, and those of the men who could not swim were obliged to lay
hold of the tails of the cattle, to which they pertinaciously clung. On
gaining the opposite bank, which was very steep, the oxen, in climbing
it, entirely submerged their charge, to the great delight and amusement
of such of their companions as had landed at a more convenient point.
The Orange River was at this season almost at its lowest, yet it was a
noble and highly picturesque stream. Looking eastward, its aspect was
particularly imposing. Its breadth at this point might have been from two
to three hundred yards. The banks were on both sides lined with evergreen
thorns, drooping willows, ebony-trees, &c.; and the water forced its
passage through a bold and striking gorge, overhung by precipices from
two to three thousand feet high. But the country all round was desolate.
The hills, which at some distant period had evidently been subject to
volcanic eruptions, had a sunburnt and crumbling appearance, and were
almost wholly destitute of vegetation. The soil in the neighborhood
of the mountains consisted of pure sand, and was covered with low and
succulent shrubs, from which our cattle, hitherto accustomed to revel in
the almost boundless savannas of Damara-land, turned with disgust. The
country for several weeks’ journey in advance of us was represented as of
a similar nature.
We began now seriously to tremble for the poor beasts, which had already
lost flesh. Upward of two months’ traveling had to be performed before we
could reach our destination.
With the exception of that portion of Namaqua-land and Damara-land
bordering on the coast, the part of the country I speak of has the most
inauspicious appearance I ever saw. Its sterility arises probably from
being situated near the limit, not only of the “thunder-rains,” but of
the regular rains (“mist-rains,” as they are called in the colony), and
the consequent frequency of great droughts. Indeed, scarcely any rain
falls here in some years.