For some distance upstream we found the river-bank flat, barren, and

uninteresting, whilst bordering it extended a long flat stretch of

coarse sand and grit much resembling the diamondiferous sands of the

German South-West fields. Here, in common with many a spot along the

coast we had left, were standing numerous old prospecting pegs, showing

where a few enterprising spirits had “rushed” from Port Nolloth just

after the discovery of diamonds at Luderitzbucht, and had pegged

anything remotely resembling a “wash.” They were disappointed in

that they found no diamonds, but it is doubtful if anything like a

systematic search was ever made by these “prospectors” except in one or

two chosen spots.

Before reaching Groot Derm the banks became lined with a thick belt of

vegetation, beautiful willows of vivid green, graceful mimosa thorn,

many of them of great height, bastard ebony, and many other varieties

of trees and shrubs, forming in places an almost impenetrable barrier

to the water. Inland the country was becoming more broken and hilly,

and from an abrupt bluff overhanging the water we were able to obtain a

fine view of the river in both directions.

Westward stretched the long, flat lower reaches to where the

ribbon-like channel lost itself in the numerous lagoons of the mouth;

before us lay a broad, placid sheet of calm, unruffled water with

a typical _zee-coe-gat_ (hippo hole) mirroring the abrupt cliff on

which we were standing; upstream the silver gleam of long lake-like

stretches, broken here and there by the darker water of the rapids,

and the whole extent in that direction fringed with a thick belt of

luxuriant vegetation on either bank; bush doves fluttering and cooing

in every tree, small birds of brilliant plumage darting from branch to

branch and glistening like living sunbeams, beautiful trees, beautiful

water--in fact, a strip of Paradise running through a desert.

For the land behind us and through which we had passed, though

bush-covered and capable of supporting stock, could scarcely be called

by any other name, whilst on the other bank the enormous sand-dunes

of German South-West stretch back from the belt of willows as far as

the eye can reach, dune piled upon dune, into veritable mountains of

glaring yellow, with not a vestige of vegetation to relieve their awful

desolation.

It is a peculiar fact that there are no dunes of this description on

the British side of the river; sand of course there is, but it is

covered in vegetation of a sort, and is good land compared to the

fearful barren waste on the northern bank. A little higher up we came

to the tiny farm of Groot Derm, surely one of the loneliest places in

this land of loneliness! For to reach a habitation upstream the farmer

would have to traverse at least 150 miles of desolation bordering the

tortuous winding of the river: west of him lay the desolate beaches

we had just left, and the broad Atlantic; north spread the fearful

thirst-dunes of German South-West; and south, his “next-door neighbour”

at Port Nolloth was a good four days’ waggon trek away.

The lonely little house was empty, its owner being away on his

periodical trip for stores, and we therefore did not even outspan at

this tiny frontier homestead.

A mile or so above the farm the rough cart-track left the river and we

struck across sandy hills to Aries Drift, which we found deserted even

of the few miserable Hottentots occasionally to be found there, living

in miserable _pondhoeks_ of leaves and branches, and existing on the

milk of their goats, the gum of the thorn-trees, the few small fish to

be found in the river, and the various weird odds and ends that figure

in their cuisine.

This drift, mentioned by Alexander as a permanent Hottentot _werf_,

we found to be a most deserted and dreary expanse of flat, barren

land, composed of the extremely fine silt brought down by constantly

recurring floods; and this deep deposit of alluvial soil has been worn

into a labyrinth of channels in all directions, with thousands of

little “islands” between them, which are covered with and partly held

together by the intertwined roots of dreary-looking tamarisks. Each

time I have been to the drift it has been blowing hard, and on this

first visit the hurricane was carrying the powdery silt in swirling

clouds in all directions. There was no shelter anywhere, for the

Hottentots in the past have denuded the spot of all the big trees, and

our outspan that night was a most miserable one. A temporary lull led

to our attempting to make a fire, which had hardly got fairly going

when a most fiendish blast scattered it in all directions, taking with

it our pots and pans and half-burying us in clouds of silt. We had

to stick it somehow, however, as we had let the cattle away in search

of food; it was bitterly cold, and what with being half buried in dust,

as well as being half frozen, I was extremely glad when morning broke

after a sleepless night and we could trek again. This time we turned

south-east, away from the river and across a wide, undulating plain

consisting principally of granite débris from the mountains we could

now see, and where our waggon waited. Although to all appearances this

plain, stretching gently upwards to the mountains, was unbroken, our

attempt to cross it soon proved it to be cut into many places by deep,

dry watercourses, the banks of which were often so abrupt as to make

them worthy of being called cañons, and crossing them meant wide and

difficult detours. These watercourses, sand-choked and dry, full of

water-worn boulders of rocks foreign to the surrounding country, and

all showing the enormous erosion by water that has taken place in the

past, go to strengthen the general impression of the traveller that in

the very remote past Namaqualand enjoyed a rainfall vastly in excess of

that of to-day.

[Illustration: “KOKER BOOMEN” (_ALOE DICHOTOMA_), RICHTERSFELDT

MOUNTAINS]

[Illustration: A MOUNTAIN OF LACMATITI NEAR ZENDLING’S DRIFT,

RICHTERSFELDT.]

At length and after many tedious detours we reached some foothills of

the huge granite mountains of Kuboos which formed a barrier in front

of us, and here, by a tiny trickle of water beneath two huge outcrops

of white quartz, we found the waggon awaiting us, and with it the

full complement of “boys,” guides, and oxen to take us into that same

barrier. Formidable these mountains looked now we were close to them,

so formidable that a careful inspection of them from this “kicking-off”

spot made us wonder whether, instead of a waggon, we ought not to have

brought an aeroplane!

We spent a day in rest and preparation, during which we visited the

so-called “Cave of Hadje Aibeep,” a natural wonder of which I had often

heard, and which was situated about half a mile from our waggon at

Annisfontein. By the few white men who have visited it this queer hole

is sometimes called the “Bottomless Pit,” and the natives certainly

have some strange belief about it, and avoid it as much as possible. It

is a strange place, this Hadje Aibeep, a deep shaft going down abruptly

into the bowels of the earth, about 15 feet in diameter, almost

circular and nearly vertical. I had expected to find traces of volcanic

origin, but there is nothing of the kind near the spot, though in the

valley below there is a large amount of a sort of solidified mud, which

may have come from some such blow-hole, which may probably have been

the vent of a geyser. The most intelligent Hottentot among our guides,

a man who spoke English well, told me that the literal translation

of the name “Hadje Aibeep” was “The Unknown Place,” but whether he

meant the “unfathomable” place or the “mysterious” place I could not

determine. He said it was believed that, long, long ago, men went down

the hole and came out on the bank of the Gariep (Orange) River many

miles away, and that, in one cavern they passed through, they found

many “bright stones.” Students of the Hottentot language, however,

give another translation of the term “Hadje Aibeep,” which, they say,

relates to a form of ancestor-worship formerly practised among the

natives. When any notable died, and was buried, each passer-by was

obliged to add to a heap of stones piled upon his resting-place, and

such tumuli certainly exist in many parts of the country, but there is

nothing of the kind near this deep hole! Of course it may be that the

ancestors were thrown down the hole, and the stones on top of them; in

fact, this would be rather an obvious thing to do; but in that case

there is still plenty of room for a lot more ancestors--and stones.

Others believe the shaft is the work of man, and that at some remote

period treasure was brought up from it, whilst still another legend

connects it with the fabulous dragon-like monster, which the Hottentots

still firmly believe emerges from its underground lair at night to

ravage the land between the Gariep and Buffels rivers.

We sat round the rim of it and heard all these yarns, and, of course,

Ransson wanted to go down it at once. He appeared to have had a

lifelong pining to interview a dragon; ancestors, again, had always

been his pet hobby. I told him he would probably become an ancestor

without undue loss of time, if he insisted on being let down by the

clothes-line we had with us; and whilst he was pondering over this

dark saying, I quickly sent one of the men back to the waggon, with

instructions to hide it.

Returning to the waggon, we found that the horses had arrived; they

proved to be three dejected-looking native mares, _bosje kops_, and

were accompanied by a foal and young colt. The whole cavalcade looked

more fitted for the knacker’s yard than for hard work, and, knowing

we should have to rely upon them solely as a means of transport when

once we got among the mountains, I felt extremely dubious about them.

However, nothing else was available, and we had to make the best of it;

moreover, as events proved, they turned out wonderful little animals

for the purpose we required.

Meanwhile the waggon was entirely repacked, for we were now preparing

to enter a very different country from the one already traversed. Every

available water-barrel and utensil was filled, for henceforth we should

have nothing to rely upon but a few precarious rain-water pools for

our further supply until the maze of mountains before us was traversed

and the Orange River again reached; whilst everything that could fall

off, or out, was lashed, strapped, or otherwise secured to the waggon,

in view of the awful boulder-strewn stream-beds and rocky tracks that

would be our only roads. We trekked next day at noon, straight up the

dry boulder bed of the Annis River, the sixteen mountain-bred oxen

pulling as one beast and keeping the trek-tow taut in spite of the

huge boulders that threatened to overturn it every moment. Then a

ravine opened in the mountain flank, and we gladly turned up an incline

deep in sand. Up this gradient we trekked for hours between high bare

walls of sandstone, shale, and other sedimentary rocks, with numerous

outcrops of barren-looking quartz. Winding steadily upwards, we

outspanned about sunset on an open plateau covered with vegetation and

studded with many of the queer-looking aloes known as _koker boomen_

or “quiver-trees,” and so named from the fact that the Hottentots and

Bushmen at one time used the hollow bark of the branches as quivers.

There were many kinds of euphorbia and fleshy-leaved plants of

varieties new to me. In fact, these plateaux are in every way distinct

from the plains from which we had climbed.

Our driver was certainly bent on getting as much as possible out of

his oxen, for that night late we trekked again across the plateau to

where a gap in the peaks pointed to a pass up a steep climb where loose

stones and boulders hurled the waggon from side to side, till every

loose article in it was jumbled up in hopeless confusion, and it seemed

that no wheels ever made could stand the terrific jolting; then over a

_nek_, to plunge down a slope so steep that the tightly screwed brake

scarcely kept the vehicle from taking charge and running over the oxen

in front of it.

Having been riding all day in an antiquated saddle which was patched

and cobbled past all belief, and to enjoy sitting in which was a

taste difficult to acquire, I had thought to rest a bit by riding in

the waggon, and in spite of the jolting must have dozed a bit just

about the time we began on the down-grade. Half dreaming, I heard

the shouting and jabbering of the “boys” as they screwed down the

brake, then I felt the waggon skidding and the back part tilting up,

then we struck a rock, and the whole of the gear that the up-grade

had collected astern came “forrard” with a run. A prospecting-pan

ricochetted from my head with a bang, a rifle slipped from its slings

and smote me amidships, a kitbag came lengthwise over my anatomy

and pinned my legs down, and before I could struggle free a perfect

avalanche of various other belongings overwhelmed me.

I tried to get free, I tried to yell loud enough for the driver to

hear, but he, and every other blamed Hottentot, was yelling at the top

of his voice, the big whip was cracking like a lively rifle-fire, and

the skidding wheels were screeching and grinding and banging against

obstructions with such a din that my feeble bleat stood no chance of

being heard.

At last a lucky lurch threw me clear and I struggled up beside the

driver. It was pitch dark, but we appeared to be going down a precipice

full of loose rocks that threatened destruction at every yard.

“Solomon,” I yelled in his ear, “you must be off the path.”

“Nie, baas,” he jerked out between his yells to the oxen.

“Then,” said I, as the front wheels rose over a big boulder, and came

down with a terrific crash on the rock below it, “get off it!”

I’m not sure if he did, in fact I’m not sure of anything that happened

during that mad toboggan except trying to hold in the avalanche of

fallen gear inside the waggon; but after an interminable but by no

means dull time, we hit bottom somewhere, and outspanned in a dark

gully, but on fairly level ground. I wanted coffee badly, and, groping

round, I soon had plenty of dry bush for a fire. Then I couldn’t find

the matches, and I remembered that, as usual, I had lent them to

Ransson, who used to principally live on them. But I couldn’t find him,

and call as I could there was no answer. The “boys” had outspanned and

gone off with the oxen; and though we had matches by the gross, all my

groping in the darkness and devastation inside the waggon failed to

find one. After a while I got mad and commenced pulling everything out

and dumping it in the gully; it would have to come out and be repacked,

anyhow! And at length I found the overturned “scoff-box” and in it

matches and a candle.

After that I found Ransson; he was quite at the bottom of the pile, a

tin of golden syrup had oozed out of the scoff-box all over him, but he

still slept tranquilly and was considerably annoyed when I woke him

up. I wish I could sleep like Ransson!

We repacked that waggon at dawn, this time double-lashing everything,

for the driver warned us we should soon be at the end of the good path!

Although we had passed over a formidable range of mountains, and an

open valley widening to a plain lay to the left of us, we soon found

that our mountaineering was just beginning. For, emerging into open

ground, we turned abruptly to the right and headed straight towards a

precipitous range that made the mountains we had lately crossed look

like excavations.

Northward the ranges opened out, and across open country we could see

through the shimmering heat the long dark line of dense vegetation

bordering the Orange at Zendling’s Drift, and again, beyond, many a

lofty peak of faint, exquisite blue. And now, rough as it was, we

could see that the track we were following had been worn by many a

waggon-wheel, and our guides explained that the copper ore from the

“Numees” mine in the mountains ahead of us had been brought to the sea

over this very road.

As our way led close to the deserted mine, we resolved to visit it,

knowing, however, that it was still held under lease and could not

be pegged. We hoped to find water there too, but in this we were

disappointed, a few reeds growing in a hollow of hard-baked mud being

all that remained of the water-hole from which the miners had once

drawn their supply. This was by no means encouraging, as it might well

be that the water-hole at the spot we were first bound for would also

prove a failure; and as we had before us a particularly difficult pass

known as “Hell’s Kloof” before we reached that spot, it was obvious

that we had better push on without delay. So the waggon was hurried

forward and, keeping the ponies back in charge of a “boy,” Ransson and

I explored the mine. A considerable amount of development work has

been carried out at Numees, adits having been driven into an abrupt

mountain of quartzite in and around the dry ravine at its base. The

ore is principally bornite and “peacock ore,” beautiful in its bright

iridescent colouring, and gorgeous samples were easily chipped off

the walls of the dark, cool drives. A great deal of rough ore lies at

the mouth of the principal drive. Numees appears to be rich, and will

probably add its quota to the world’s copper-supply in the not far

distant future. Here I saw for the first time the strange and extremely

rare succulent _Pachypodium namaquanum_, known to the Hottentots as

_half mense_ (half men), which is peculiar to the country, and is

only found in a few of the more inaccessible parts of the mountains.

It attains a height of from 6 to 8 feet, its fleshy, branchless trunk

being covered with sharp thorns and surmounted by a crown of green

leaves about 9 inches in diameter. The native maintains that this head

always inclines to the east, but the plant appears to be something of

a _girasole_, inclining to the sun as the sunflower does. The trunk

is often the girth of a man, and the effect of these solitary, erect

figures against the bare background of rock is such as to render their

Hottentot name of “half men” very appropriate. The plant was first

discovered by Paterson, and described by him in his _Voyage into

the Country of the Hottentots_ about a century ago. I brought back

two of these rare plants on each of my trips. Two were given to Dr.

Marloth, the famous botanist, one of which, I believe, he presented to

Kew Gardens, and the other to Professor Pearson of the South African

Museum. These were, I believe, the first live specimens ever brought to

Cape Town.

Having explored the mine, we started after the waggon, and soon found

ourselves in the formidable ravine known as “Hell’s Kloof.” Our unshod

little native ponies made light of the rugged track, hemmed in on

either side by precipitous peaks, and until we overtook the waggon we

were inclined to think that the difficulties of this particular part

of the trek had been much overrated. But when we came in sight of the

waggon we realised that what was fairly easy going to lightly laden

ponies which could climb like goats was very heavy work for a long and

weighty waggon. In the distance at times the oxen looked like flies

crawling up a wall, then they disappeared over a ridge, and shouts,

yells, and a fusillade of whips showed the kind of toboggan they had

struck on the other side.

In many places the rise was so steep that it had to be taken literally

at the run, for once having lost momentum the whole outfit must have

gone over and over till it hit the bottom. Still, by great effort and

even more luck we managed to get to the top of the Kloof, and I think

the oxen and “boys” were nearly as pleased as we were--not quite,

perhaps, for they did not know, as we did, that over a hundred pounds

of dynamite and box after box of detonators were among the stores in

that waggon!

Even at the summit the sun had sunk, but beyond the pass we had just

climbed the western sky was still ablaze, and silhouetted against it

were innumerable peaks of every shade of mauve and violet grading

into deepest purple. It was magnificent, and I sat down on a rock and

gazed and gazed, and was still gazing when Ransson, who has no soul,

came along and asked me what I was mooning at. I waved my hand to the

celestial pageant: “Drinking it in,” I said shortly--I don’t like being

talked to when I feel like that. He said, “Yes, I’m thirsty too; but

you ought to be kicked for talking about drinking when we’re 200 miles

from any beer!” As I said before, Ransson has no soul.

That night we put in three hours’ more hard trekking, starting at

moonrise, winding in and out peaks and always keeping at a great

height, skirting deep gullies and precipices, floundering over stony

slopes where the wheels dislodged big boulders and sent them bounding

and leaping hundreds of feet down into the black depths of the Krantzes

below. The need for haste was imperative, for the oxen were thirsty,

and should we find no water at our destination they would barely get

back. A cold outspan in a cloud of driving mist, and we were glad to

move on again before sun-up. By eight o’clock we were bumping and

skidding down a mountain-slope to where, far below, wound a tortuous

silver ribbon of dry sand that once had been a river. On every hand

rose mountains, and beyond these more mountains.

I don’t know how the waggon got down, for I took the rifle and cleared

on ahead on foot, and I was hard put to it in places to keep my footing.

But get down it did, in a very short space of time, and wonderfully

little the worse for wear, considering the battering it had had on

Namaqualand “roads.” An hour’s trek beside the sand and we came to

our destination, a few brilliantly green willows, rising from the dry

river-bed, marking a natural camping-place, and the spot where gold had

been found many years before.

CHAPTER IX

GOLD CAMP--THROUGH THE MOUNTAINS TO ARIEP--TATAS BERG AND COPPER

PROSPECTS--A “MOUNTAIN” OF COPPER--THE GREAT FISH RIVER--THE “GROOT

SLANG”--ZENDLING’S DRIFT.

Here, if water allowed, we intended making a permanent central

camp from which to start our real business of prospecting, but the

question--and the question above all others in these mountains--was

water. Anxiously we followed the guide as he scrambled up over a

ridge and into a ravine about 200 feet above our halting-place. To

our consternation we found the much-desired water-hole to consist

of nothing but a small pool of stagnant rain-water, teeming with

animalcules, and barely sufficient to last ourselves and the “boys”

a week, over and above the scanty supply in our casks. Our guide had

described the place as a sort of lake(!) with _banja water_, and he

appeared hurt to think that this little hip-bath full of alleged liquid

did not come up to the glowing description he had given us--so there

was no more to be said!

The position was serious. Our oxen and horses had had no water since

leaving Annisfontein, two days before; they had worked terrifically,

and their flanks were hollow with thirst--for though they can go

for four days without great discomfort over an easy trek, it is a

different thing when they have been called upon to achieve the wellnigh

impossible. And certainly they could not slake their thirst here. So we

hurried back to camp and decided at once that they must be sent back

to where they had last drunk, though probably some of them would never

reach there.

But after a long and excited palaver among the “boys,” one of them

intimated that he knew of a water-hole only a few hours away, and that

it was a _fontein_ where there was plenty of water and grass for the

oxen. And so we sent him off with the poor thirsty brutes, hoping he

would prove less of a romancer than the other chap, which luckily he

did.

Evidently spurred by this good example, Klaas Zwartbooi, the wildest

of the lot, and almost a pure Bushman, came clucking around us like a

broody hen, and led us to understand that he also knew of water quite

near us! We followed him, and sure enough, in another rocky catchment

amongst the wilderness of peaks, we found a second tiny pool. Ransson

was pleased, and gave Klaas a plug of tobacco he had no further use

for, and this stimulated him to further efforts; for after another

severe scramble, and in the most unlikely-looking spot imaginable, he

brought us to still another apology for a water-hole.

Klaas was not a witch-doctor for nothing, and I feel sure that, if we

had only had a pound of strong plug tobacco to tempt him with, he would

have found us a nice little private bar and some iced lager-beer in the

next gully.

Anyway, there was clearly enough liquid in the vicinity to keep us

going for some time, and so we scrambled back to camp, pitched our

tent, unpacked our waggon, had the first square meal for days, set our

roust-about to make bread, and got ready for real prospecting.

Many years ago, in one of the gullies close to this spot, a number of

gold nuggets had been found. These had been brought into Port Nolloth

by a Hottentot, and white men proceeded to the spot. Still more nuggets

were found, and eventually the magistrate of the district, Mr. W.

C. Scully, the well-known writer, is said to have proceeded to the

spot and verified the discovery. But owing to its inaccessibility and

want of water it was never proclaimed a gold-diggings; and though an

occasional white man had made an attempt to find gold there since, no

one had succeeded. Still, it was obvious to us that nothing but the

veriest fossicking had been done there, and we had hopes.

So day after day we cleaned and scraped hole and hole of the water-worn

gully; carefully panning the stuff in a bathful of our precious water,

using the latter over and over again, and losing not a drop; and

still we could not find even a “colour” of the precious metal. In the

mountain slopes above there were outcrops of quartz in all directions;

most of these, however, were of white, glassy-looking stuff, and showed

no signs of being mineralised; but day after day, after our failure

in the gullies, we tested these systematically, separating, going off

in different directions with a little food and a prospect-hammer, and

a boy carrying a bag, and bringing back heavy loads of samples, to

be laboriously pounded down to a fine powder with pestle and mortar,

and as laboriously tested--and still no trace of gold. Minerals there

were in abundance--copper especially. In all directions the rocks

were discoloured blue or green with it; here and there the quartz was

speckled bright with the silvery-looking crystal of molybdenite, in

more than one place we found rich galena; yet, though these diverse

minerals were to be seen almost everywhere, in no case were they in

sufficient bulk to warrant extensive work being done on them. Samples,

samples, everywhere--though one or two huge cappings of hæmatite were

well worth going through to see what kind of a pie their thick crust

covered! It was wearying work after a while, when the hope of finding

gold became less and less, hard work that tore hands to pieces with the

sharp razor-like splinters of the quartz, the scorching sun turning

the rocks so hot that they blistered one, and all around a glare of

sun, sand, and barren mountain-sides that made one’s eyeballs burn as

though they were being slowly roasted. And except for our few “boys”

in the gullies near the camp, an absolute silence, unbroken except

for the occasional scream of a _dassie vanger_, as the big eagles are

called that sweep round the slopes of the peaks in search of an unwary

rock-rabbit. Bird life and animal life were very scarce; though on the

higher peaks the chamois-like _klip bok_ was plentiful, and would have

afforded good sport had we been there for that purpose; but we were

after gold, and contented ourselves with “cookies” and the tinned food

from our stores. Of human beings we saw none; indeed, we had not seen a

soul except a solitary native at the little farm at Groot Derm since we

had left the _nachtmaal_ meeting at Springklip.

At length, having failed utterly to find a single trace of “pay dirt,”

we decided to lay bare the whole bed of the sand-choked “river,” below

which the reputedly rich gully emptied itself, by doing which, if gold

existed there in a free state, we should find a trace of it. But the

labour entailed would be considerable, and as the water was none too

plentiful, we decided to leave the “boys” to do the rough part of the

work whilst we made a rapid trip to locate and peg certain important

copper deposits two days’ ride away towards the Orange. We took two

guides with us, and this time carried everything we required on our

horses--food, water, sleeping kit, tools, dynamite, gun, rifle, etc.,

being festooned about the little nags in a most extraordinary manner.

Ransson looked exactly like the “White Knight” in _Alice_, and the

clatter of the frying-pan at his saddle-bow was martial to a degree. I

had just complimented him on this when the tea-kettle at my crupper got

loose and went one better; then the prospecting-pan on the pack-horse

joined in, and for a time we sounded like a whole troop of travelling

tinkers. The baboons came out on the rocky peaks and hooted us, and

Ransson, with fine repartee, hooted back.

The track led up and across bare rocky ridges and along precipitous

slopes where a goat could scarcely have found foothold, and at times I

felt much like climbing off and leaving the ironmongery to the pony’s

mercy; but the little beasts were so careful, so surefooted, that I

soon realised I was safer in the saddle than I should be on foot. They

seemed quite tireless too, and when, after four hours’ climbing and

clambering, we halted on a high grassy plateau, they appeared as fresh

as ever.

The wide open space was beautiful with flowers, and there was plenty

of food for the horses; but we made only a very brief halt, as we had

planned to reach the Orange River that evening, and had only brought

the barest ration of water from our limited supply at camp.

All the morning the heat had been great, and it was now terrific; the

bush on the plateau was too stunted to afford any shade, and we were

glad to get going again. This plateau was really a divide--a small

tableland--about 3,000 feet high, and from it a veritable Switzerland

of mountains could be seen stretching in all directions. We were

accustomed to mountains by this time, but those ahead of us were so

weird-looking as to appear absolutely unreal! We had passed range after

range already, but in most cases the gullies, and even some of the

slopes, had been covered with vegetation of a sort--queer, fantastic

plants and cacti--but still vegetation! But these queer peaks were

stark and bare and of the most startling colours. In serrated lines

they stretched out like the teeth of a saw, and their crumbling slopes

of rotten schist were of every shade of red, of brick-red, of flaring

vermilion, of bright orange-red, in fact of every red-hot gradation

of colour. And across their flaming flanks, in startling contrast,

were drawn long broad bands of intense black, sharply defined in huge

zigzags, and looking as though they had been scrawled across the

scorching landscape by an enormous pencil.

Between these strange peaks “ran” rivers of glaring white and yellow

sand, and riding through this uncanny goblin-land the weird stories of

huge snakes and monsters told us by the Hottentots seemed no longer

impossible. The whole land seemed dead, burnt up, absolutely devoid

of life; not a bird or other living creature was to be seen anywhere,

though the spoors of _wilde paarde_ here and there in the sand showed

where mountain zebra occasionally roamed. For hours we rode down and

down the slopes till at length we entered a wide stretch of bare sand

flanked by mountains; this also gradually sloped and narrowed till it

became a tortuous defile, on either hand of which towered abrupt and

red-hot looking cliffs. The heat was appalling; it struck back from

glaring sand and rocks as from a furnace, and I was soon parched with

thirst. We knew there was plenty of water a few hours ahead of us,

and I for one was thankful for the knowledge. For nothing accentuates

thirst like anxiety as to when it can be quenched, and luckily we felt

none.

There was not a sound, for the soft sand deadened the footfalls of the

horses as with drooping ears they trudged dejectedly along, hour after

hour, winding and turning through narrow _poorts_ where two could not

pass abreast, flanking mountains only to find others barring our path,

always descending and always getting hotter and hotter. In places,

scrambling over huge masses of iron ore fallen from the black zigzags

above, or tempted to clamber up to some bright deceiving outcrop of

adamantine iron-glance, or to where the numerous green stains on the

red rock showed the existence of copper; walking as much as possible

to save the poor nags’ unshod hoofs, and only climbing to the saddle

when our own feet became unbearable, we plodded and shuffled for five

solid hours down that infernal ravine. I asked Klaas if it had a name.

He said, “No,” that it was not a regular “path,” and that he had only

been through it once--many years ago, when he was a boy. Time went

on, and the course became so tortuous that at times we appeared to be

doubling on our tracks; each of the peaks we passed looked exactly

like the others we had already passed, and I began to think that Klaas

was leading us in a vain circle! By-and-by we came to a big rock of

crushed-strawberry colour with vermilion trimmings, and Ransson called

Klaas back. He said, “Look here, Klaas; we’ve passed this blamed klip

six times already! Now, you may think this funny, but we don’t, and

I’m going to mark this pebble with my hatchet, and if we pass it

again--there’ll be trouble.”

Klaas must have seen that we were not to be trifled with, for we didn’t

pass the rock again after that, and in about a week--Ransson says it

was the same evening, but I know better--we suddenly emerged from a

narrow gap in the rock ... and there, within a hundred yards, lay a

glorious shining stretch of beautiful water bordered by a broad belt of

luxuriant trees; and a vivid lawn of velvet turf extended almost to our

very feet!

No transformation scene could have been more dramatically sudden ... we

had been riding through an inferno and suddenly here was Paradise!

The poor nags spurted at the welcome sight, and within a couple of

minutes our scanty clothing was off, and we were up to our necks in the

water and letting the whole of the Orange River run down our thirsty

throttles.

The place is called “!!Ariep!!” the notes of exclamation representing

the Hottentot “clicks” that Klaas put into the alleged word. I told him

I was glad to hear it, and would take his word for it sooner than go

back. It really is a most beautiful spot; the river is about a quarter

of a mile wide, and upstream takes a majestic bend. In that direction

it is dotted with islands covered with trees and dense undergrowth, and

is a favourite spot for the few hippo still to be found in the Orange.

Downstream there are rapids which, though they look very innocent,

are not to be trifled with, as I found later. Opposite, on the German

bank, the mountains are as bare and highly coloured as those we had

passed through. Indeed, “Red-hot Valley,” as we called it, is but one

of scores in this region, where, strangely enough, the peaks near the

river are all devoid of vegetation. The schistose rock of which they

are principally composed seems to be suffering from dry-rot, for it

crumbles at the slightest touch, and in climbing a whole avalanche is

eternally clattering down from underfoot.

Here and there a few ghostly-looking _koker boomen_, or huge twisted

_Candelabra euphorbia_, looking like huge spiders, cling to a

precarious footing, and that is all.

The night of our arrival was a night of absolute luxury, with soft

green sward for a bed, the twinkling stars above reflected in the long

mirror-like stretches of the river, and the murmur of the rapids for a

lullaby which we didn’t need.

Next morning we started upstream, for the best part of the day skirting

the narrow belt of vegetation, clambering over huge piles of débris at

the base of abrupt cliffs, where the belt narrowed to a few clinging

bushes, and the river swirled directly below us; at other times, when

the bed widened, losing sight of the river for miles and miles, and

finding it next to impossible to burst our way through the tangled

virgin growth. There was no vestige of a path, though here and there

we came across a fallen and rotten trunk, or a lopped branch, showing

that an axe had once cut a way there. That day we were shown three

different spots where shafts had been sunk on prospects many years ago:

all within a short distance of the river; indeed, it was obvious that

copper was to be found almost everywhere, the blue and green stains

showing up in all directions on the rocks bordering the scorching

sand-rivers.

A few days in the defiles of the “Tatas Bergen,” and without going

far from the water, satisfied us as to the copper prospects, and we

returned to!!Ariep!! to locate a further spot which Klaas knew of,

and of which we had great expectations. The samples he had shown us

were of beautiful bornite, and if the spot only came up to the sample,

it would mean something exceptionally good. Alas I we did not then

fully realise what a queer mixture of intelligence and stupidity

the average Hottentot or Bushman is! For, leading us downstream for

half a day’s hard trek, Klaas ultimately landed us at a spot where

the mountains receded from the river-bed, and the latter widened out

into a boulder-strewn stretch of water-worn débris a mile or more in

width. And here, in a patch of alluvial gravel, sand, and pebbles, he

triumphantly pointed out two or three small fragments of bornite, the

remnant of a water-borne fragment that he had found there, and smashed

up on the spot! This was his copper-mine, and he seemed quite satisfied

with it. There was nothing to show where it had come from: some bygone

flood had brought it down--the veriest bit of jetsam. Words failed, for

we had come all the way from Tatas Berg for this! Indeed, it had been

one of our principal reasons for leaving the waggon. Meanwhile Klaas

sat on his haunches and grinned and clucked, and held his old pipe out

for _tabaki_, and was evidently quite pleased with himself. I started

to tell him a little of what I thought of him, but realised that it

was a bit beyond me. Then I saw Ransson picking up the rest of the

“mine,” and I turned to him. “Oh, don’t be an ass!” I said. “Throw the

... stuff away--throw him away too! What are you going to do with it,

anyhow?”

“Make him eat it!” grunted Ransson--and judging by Klaas’s appearance a

little later, I believe he did.

“Ou Ezaak,” the other Hottentot with us, now came forward with the

information that he knew of another spot where there was an abundance

of copper. It would mean a long day’s trek to the south, but we could

return to the waggon that way. He assured us that it was a “mine”

where, as a boy, he had worked with white men.

With the awful example of what had happened to Klaas well before him,

he still persisted in his assurance of what we should find if we

followed him, and we therefore turned back upstream without further

loss of time, for our stores were wellnigh exhausted. There was a

moon, and we trekked late, leaving the river by a side-ravine, winding

and twisting between abrupt peaks, and always rising. By midnight

we were almost clear of the mountains, and off-saddled for a few

hours. There was not a vestige of food for the horses, nor a twig or

bush to make a fire with. We were bitterly cold, and after vainly

endeavouring to sleep, were glad to be moving again. Crossing a low

rocky ridge, we emerged upon an almost level sandy plateau, with a

few isolated peaks here and there, and made our way for some hours

towards a peculiar-looking kopje, jet black, and looking as though

made of shining anthracite coal. Around it lay thousands of tons of

titaniferous iron-sand, and, turning its base, we found an entirely

new panorama. A wide sand-river stretched away to the south, and the

peaks beyond it were quite different in appearance from those we had

traversed. They appeared to be tilted quartzite; in places the bedding

was clearly defined, in others tossed and contorted in a most fantastic

manner. Striking across the plateau, we almost immediately came upon a

small herd of springbok, the first we had seen. We needed fresh meat

badly, and after about three hours of the chase, in which the buck

displayed considerably more knowledge of the locality than we did, we

still needed it.

It was terrifically hot, we were dog-tired and thirsty, and the mirage

was so strong all around that we could not always tell whether there

was one buck or twenty, or whether they were a hundred yards away or

five hundred. But that was not our reason for abandoning the chase.

Ransson sat down on a red-hot rock and mopped his brow. “Look here,” he

said; “after all, these poor little things have done us no harm--why

should we shoot them?”

I agreed, and explained that I had been merely shooting near them, just

to see their antics when the bullet struck, and had not dreamed of

hitting them; also that we’d better leave off in case we did.

“Yes,” agreed Ransson, “we’ll chuck it--anyhow we’ve no more

cartridges!”

So we trudged on for three hours after the horses, which were already

miles ahead.

This country was almost as weird as that which we had passed through

on our way to the river. We were apparently skirting the base of a

mountain of coal, jet black and glistening; the sands surrounding it

were also black, but they were not coal, but titaniferous iron-sand,

which I tried in vain for gold. This queer-looking peak was principally

composed of hornblende, and here I also noticed huge crystals of black

tourmaline, as thick as one’s wrist. At length, tired and footsore,

we reached an ancient river-bed actually rejoicing in a name. “Gauna

Gulip” old Ezaak called it, when we found him waiting for us with the

horses under the poor shade of a few tamarisks--the first vegetation

we had seen all day. Here also there were a few clumps of rushes, and

the “boys” were busy scooping a hole in the sand with their hands. At

about three feet, the bottom became moist, water began to ooze in, and

we soon had enough for a kettle of tea. Meanwhile the horses had gone

down the bed to a small open pool. I went and looked at it, but it was

a squirming mass of animalcules, not fit even to boil; though, a month

later, I was glad to drink the little that was left of it. We stayed at

the sand-scooped hole, not to rest, for it was too hot to sleep, but

patiently collecting enough water as it oozed in by the spoonful to

fill our water-bottles, for Ezaak told us we should get no more till we

reached the waggon, and we had two formidable ranges to cross before

then. As a matter of fact, we could have drunk the whole supply as

fast as it became available, for the heat that day was phenomenal--it

seemed to be drying the very blood up in our veins, and converting

us into biltong. Not far from this water-hole we came upon the first

trace of man we had seen for many days, a faint old waggon-spoor in the

sand. It led towards the fantastic peaks to the south, and Klaas told

us that the vehicle had passed through some six months previously, on

its way to a mass of native copper which had been discovered among the

mountains there. We followed it for a short distance only, and, turning

up a branch-ravine, came to the old prospect Ezaak had told us of, and

which, luckily for him, was far too big to eat!

[Illustration: THE DEEP GORGE, 500 FEET OR MORE IN DEPTH, IN WHICH

THE ORANGE RIVER IS PENNED BELOW THE GREAT FALLS.]

By the time we had pegged the spot it was sunset, and a debatable point

whether we should camp there and ride early next day, or try to cross

the mountains by moonlight. We had eaten our last scrap of food at

midday, and there was no vegetation for the horses to nibble, so we

decided on the latter, though we knew we were taking risks, for Ezaak

seemed none too sure of the path, and crossing pathless mountains by

moonlight is scarcely a picnic. Rummaging in our depleted saddle-bags,

we found a last pinch of tea, plentifully mixed with tobacco dust,

and with it we brewed a kettleful of the most obnoxious fluid I have

ever tasted. The water was brak (alkaline) and thick and slimy, and

we had no sugar, but we got down a hot beakerful each, and started

on one of the coldest rides I have ever experienced. For on the

bare, sun-blistered uplands of Namaqualand there is practically no

intermediate stage between intense heat and intense cold, and less than

an hour after sunset my teeth were chattering and my hands so numbed

I could scarcely hold the reins. Naturally, the higher we climbed,

the colder it became, and I soon regretted that I had not decided to

wait hungry, and do that ride in the warm sunshine. I had nothing on

but a khaki shirt and pants, of the thinnest--just enough to keep the

sun from flaming me--and though I had a blanket strapped on the horse,

it was useless trying to wrap that about me in such a scramble as we

were in for. It soon became evident that Ezaak was relying on his

sense of direction to bring us to the waggon, and occasionally he was

absolutely at fault. In and out among the solemn peaks we scrambled,

here plunging into dark ravines, where it was impossible to do more

than grope one’s way, then emerging into a blaze of white moonlight

that showed every pebble in the path as clear as noonday. Once or

twice, in the darker places, we had to retrace our steps, as we found

the way barred by rock or precipice, and often the only warning that

we were on dangerous heights was the crash of a dislodged stone or

boulder falling into the depths below. But “Ou Ezaak” still scrambled

on, till, after passing over two distinct ranges, we found ourselves

again amongst thick vegetation, and here our experiences became even

more variegated. For most of the bush was of the _wachteen-beitje_

variety, full of hooked thorns, and as the little nags wriggled through

it, it ripped and tore skin and clothing from us in the most impartial

manner. It blew great guns too, and but for sheer shame I would have

called a halt, lighted a fire, and waited for morning. However, Ezaak

was now fairly in his stride, and after an interminable time, and when

I had resigned myself to being utterly lost, we suddenly plunged down

a dark ravine, and saw a fire twinkling below us. It was the waggon,

right enough. We had been scrambling for seven hours. In the morning we

found that a dozen or more Hottentots had pitched their mat _pondhoeks_

close to the waggon. They had a flock of goats with them, and appeared

to live entirely on the milk. We bought a little of it later, giving

tobacco and tea in return. They had a great idea of the value of their

commodity, and doled it out very sparingly. Their fondness for tobacco

is extraordinary, the women and young girls smoking quite as much as

the men, and passing the hollow leg-bone of a buck, which serves them

as a pipe, from lip to lip, as they squatted by the fire.

They had two riding-oxen with them, fine-looking beasts with a rein

passed through the nostril to guide them by, and saddled with ordinary

horse-saddles of German military pattern. We used them on several of

our excursions later, finding them excellent, both for pace, endurance

and climbing powers, which they possess to a remarkable degree.

With all this addition to the population, it was clear that the water

would last only a few days; in fact, we were hard put to it to enable

us to “pan” the cleaning up on the section of river-bed which the

“boys” had bared for us. Still, we managed somehow, the remains of the

water in which we had “panned” for gold all day serving us for making

coffee at night; but in spite of all our efforts, we found no particle

of gold, and reluctantly decided to abandon the spot, coming to the

conclusion, at the time, that we had been shown the wrong spot, and

that the gold had never been found there.

Before leaving, however, we finished our exploration of the surrounding

peaks, finding numerous traces of other metals, but no gold. As an

instance of the variety of minerals scattered through this region,

I may state that a single stick of dynamite in a faint splash of

carbonate of copper disclosed more than a hundredweight of bornite,

with galena, an essay of which, in Cape Town, gave 38 per cent. of

copper and 24 oz. of silver to the ton, whilst within a fifty yards

radius, fine samples of molybdenum, hæmatite, and copper-glance

were found, and the sand-rivers were black with hundreds of tons of

titaniferous iron-sand. Many of the rarer and lesser-known metals are

undoubtedly present also in this region, tantallite being frequently

met with in the sands and amongst the hæmatite débris, and the very

large crystals occasionally met with point to the probability of large

deposits of this valuable mineral awaiting systematic search. The

ravines of this wild and remote spot were full of a beauty peculiarly

their own, being luxuriant with vegetation of strange form and colour:

_Varias euphorbia_, huge fleshy-trunked succulents, with brilliant

scarlet flowers, aloes of different shapes and colours, and above all,

a most glorious copper-coloured bush, known locally as the “Pride

of Namaqualand,” all contrasting vividly with the milk-white of the

quartz, and the brick-red of the red-hot-looking schist. Here of all

places, the strange _Pachypodium namaquanum_ is abundant, and reaches a

size I saw nowhere else: moreover, many of these giant succulents, of

10 feet or more in height, were many-branched instead of consisting of

a single trunk, and may possibly be a different variety. Of animal life

there was but little. On the higher peaks, the chamois-like klipbok

could occasionally be seen standing on an isolated point and tempting

a long shot, but in the valleys a few leopards and wild-cat, a slinking

hyæna or jackal, were all that were ever seen.

Just before leaving, a Hottentot came in riding an ox, and claimed

through an interpreter that he knew of the whereabouts of a “mountain”

of copper, rumours of which I had heard from various sources before. A

certain German prospector named Preuss--a man whose word I absolutely

believe--had told me that some years back he had endeavoured to

trek through these mountains from the vicinity of the Great Fish

River--which runs through German South-West--into the Orange. Some

natives had guided him; it had been an exceptionally dry season, and

they had nearly died of thirst, but in a remote spot he had come upon

a whole mountain of copper ore. He wanted water more than copper, and

had no licence anyway, so he made no attempt to peg it, but he told me

of it in Cape Town, and gave me the names of the Richtersfeldt natives

who had brought him through. I had made inquiries from the Mission,

and this chap was the first result. He gave us his name, but I cannot

reproduce it--it sounded like a hungry man swallowing oysters. Anyway,

he said he could guide us to that mountain, and that it was three

days’ trek away, so we rationed him, and made him happy with tobacco,

and prepared to trek. A man was sent away to bring in the oxen, which

were grazing some days away; the waggon was left in charge of Peter,

with instructions to meet us at Zendling’s Drift fourteen days later;

and with scant rations in our saddle-bags, we started off again, under

the guidance of the ox-rider. His route led us back to the Orange--a

few miles above where we had struck it before, but through quite a

different series of ravines, in which we again came upon numerous

copper indications, all of which we ignored, in view of the “whole

mountain” of it to which we were being guided.

But alas! our guide turned out to be a bigger romancer than Klaas

Zwartbooi, for after two days of hard trekking, he landed us at a

little patch of green carbonate the size of a tea-tray, and solemnly

pronounced this to be the spot we were looking for!

We had passed at least a dozen better prospects _en route_

without taking the trouble to turn aside from the path! This was

heart-breaking, and I never felt more homicidal in my life. We could

get nothing out of the brute: he spoke no word of any language but the

“click,” and old Ezaak’s (our other guide) few words of English and

Dutch were quite unequal to the occasion.

So we retraced our steps to the river, with the intention of following

its tortuous course to Zendling’s Drift, where we had been told

Preuss’s guide was living--for this man was plainly an impostor. That

night we spent by the solemn, lonely Orange, bathing and revelling

in the cool water to our hearts’ content. We had brought but very

little food with us, hoping for game; but we came across nothing, and

regretfully resorted to the unsportsmanlike practice of putting a stick

of dynamite in one of the deep pools, in the hope of getting some fish.

About half a dozen little chaps the size of small herrings (a variety

of _springer_) was the only result, and they were so absolutely full of

bones as to be quite uneatable. We grilled them, and tried to imagine

they were trout, but the only thing good about them was the smell!

A moonlit river is always beautiful; the Orange (possibly because of

its contrast with the wilderness of barren and forbidding mountains

through which it has burst a way) seems incomparably so.

Before turning in, I walked up the bank to a beautiful grassy spot,

where I could see for some distance, and sat down, and looked at the

majestic sweep of the water upstream. There was not a sound, for

the nearest rapids were miles away, and not a ripple disturbed the

mirror-like surface of the water, as the big volume of it swept slowly

by, from the black, towering portals of the Tatas Berg mountains in the

far distance. Above that gorge for at least a hundred miles its course

is almost unknown, as for miles it is penned into a cañon between

precipitous cliffs.

It was all very tranquil and lonely, and I lay on the sweet turf and

smoked, and pondered on the fact that, with the exception of Ransson

and the guides, there was probably not a soul within many days’

journey. It made me feel quite sentimental, and I thought of the

crowded towns I had known, and the crowded bars ... and the beer....

Then I heard a concertina ...! and I wondered if the sun had been too

much for me. A concertina! here, in the most solitary spot imaginable!

It appeared sheer lunacy, but there was no doubt about it, and I got

up and cleared back to camp, prepared for any old thing. Ransson was

sitting by the fire, smoking, and before him were capering two little

stark naked Hottentot “boys,” imitating the antics of monkeys--in fact,

dancing the so-called “baboon dance” of the Bushmen.

But the musician! He was away ahead of the gaudiest buck-nigger I had

ever seen! On his head was a German uniform “smasher” hat, about three

sizes too large for him, and covered with sweeping ostrich plumes, a

tight-waisted, wide-skirted uniform coat was left open to show what

had once been a very _décolleté_ white waistcoat, which in turn was

finished off with a broad athlete’s belt of red, white, and black.

Then his costume ended till you came to his feet, on which he wore

a brand-new pair of glaring yellow elastic-sided boots, with spurs!

Oh! he was a peach, and he knew it. His concertina was also German,

spangled beyond belief, and quite new. He only used about three notes

of the considerable number there appeared to be on it, but the Guards’

Drum Major, Sarasate, Paderewski, and several other virtuosi rolled

into one could not have approached that buck-nigger for style. After

a while we got him to stop his music and talk. He spoke a little

alleged English and Dutch, and several German cuss-words, and led

us to understand that he had been working in German South-West some

months, and had now decided to retire and get married. We wondered

where the lady was, and gave him some _tabaki_ and wished him luck,

and he cleared off. But we had scarcely got to sleep when that infernal

concertina started again, and there was “His Nibs” back again, with the

two “coryphées” capering away for all they were worth, and evidently

prepared to keep it up all night. The more _tabaki_ I gave them, the

more energetic they became; the more I swore, the more they seemed to

think I appreciated their efforts; and at last I had to turn out of my

blankets and go for them with a sjambok. Then only did they quit, and

I turned in again. But I had got a big thorn in my foot, and when I

had got that out a scorpion got into my bed, and objected to my being

there. Altogether, a nice, quiet, idyllic night by the river.

In the morning, the musician turned up with a tin full of goat’s milk,

and informed me that he knew a magnificent copper-mine close at hand,

and wanted us to pay him for showing it. As he pointed in the direction

we were going, we took him along, and, as I expected, he led us to an

outcrop that we had pegged on our previous visit.

He then danced about six steps, played a pæan of joy on his infernal

concertina, grinned from ear to ear, and held out his hand. “’Undred

pounds,” said he. “_Duizand pond, Zwanzig mark!_” He got it.

We gave him a plug of tobacco, and a little tea for his bride, and he

stood on a peak and played us out of sight. He was certainly the most

cheerful and original Christy Minstrel I ever met in a wild state, and

I remember him with gratitude.

We now made our way down the river towards Zendling’s Drift, finding

but little difficulty for the first day or two. The banks were mostly

densely wooded; at places this belt of virgin vegetation was half a

mile or so in width, in others the abrupt flanking peaks crowded in

upon the stream, leaving but a narrow belt of vegetation clinging to

their base. There was plenty of grass for the horses, pigeons for the

pot, and dassies (rock rabbits) for the “boys.” Skinned, they looked

like rabbits, and smelt very nice when cooking, but I could not bring

myself to taste them. Though small birds were plentiful, and there

were wild duck and geese in abundance, and monkeys and baboons galore,

we saw no trace of larger game here by these solitary reaches of the

Orange; if we except the splashes of some large animals in the pools

between some of the numerous islands, which the “boys” assured me were

hippo.

These latter, of which there are but a very few left in the Orange,

are usually found on the islands near where the Great Fish River joins

the larger stream, after running for hundreds of miles through German

South-West.

We passed this spot on the second day, and here saw the first sign of

former habitation, two or three abandoned _pondhoeks_ made of branches,

long since dry and leafless. And here we came upon stretches of fine

sand and gravels which showed signs, here and there, that they had

been worked superficially, doubtless for diamonds, for there were the

gravels that Stuurmann had told me of in Luderitzbucht, and, as he had

described them, they were sparkling with “bright stones”--pretty but

worthless crystals.

We found no diamonds, but we had not the means for systematic sieving,

and some of the old river terraces near this spot looked very promising

indeed.

The mouth of the Great Fish River, where it debouches into the Orange,

is choked with a huge accumulation of sand, through which, after

rain, the water finds its way in various small channels to swell the

larger stream. There are numerous small, well-wooded islands in the

vicinity--these were the haunts of the hippo already alluded to. The

spot is one of the wildest and most remote and difficult of access of

all spots in this deserted region; even on the German bank there is

neither settlement nor habitation within many days’ trek in either

direction.

Our leisurely and easy trek downstream now came to an end, for just

after passing the Great Fish, we came to a bend where the mountain

converged upon the river, the course of which became tortuous in the

extreme; and at length an apparently impenetrable barrier of peaks

stretched before us, through which it appeared impossible that the

river could penetrate. And then trouble began. In places we scrambled

for hours along precipitous slopes, cumbered with fallen rocks, and

with swirling rapids below us; a mile or so of easier going where the

country was more open, and again a mountain spur would shoulder the

river aside. This time the abrupt slope would be dense with high and

tangled thorn-bush through which we had to cut a way, whilst here and

there a huge fallen rock or a whole landslide from the cliffs above

would bar further progress, till we had crawled round, over, or under

them, at imminent risk of breaking our ponies’ necks or legs, as

well as our own. At times we were obliged to descend into the actual

river-bed, and had the water not been low, these traverses would, of

course, have been impracticable, and a sudden freshet upstream would

certainly have accounted for the lot of us, had the flood caught us in

one of these spots.

The worst going for the ponies was over these places, for the huge

rocks and boulders were rounded, slimy, and slippery with mud, exactly

like boulders on a sea-beach at low tide.

But, to me, the biggest nightmare of a spot was where, on the steep

slopes of a mountain rising abruptly from the water, a big drift of

sand rested. I do not know at what angle sand will rest, but certainly

it was steeper than 45 degrees, and dry and loose. We could not get

above it, for there the cliff was vertical, and the men warned us

that we must keep going as fast as possible, as to stand still a

minute meant being half-buried, and slipping down with the sand to

the swirling water below. The ponies would scarcely face it, and were

plainly scared out of their wits, and I did not like it myself.

But there was no alternative, and no time to stay and think about it,

for it was nearly dark, and we could not stay where we were, whilst

about a mile ahead we could see open ground and grass. I don’t know

how we managed that mile; it was one wild flounder and scramble, a case

of plunging through loose, shifting sand up to one’s knees almost,

dragging a frightened pony behind, and always climbing upwards as well

as forward, to compensate for the slipping-down of the whole bank of

sand.

I was heartily glad when it was over, and though I have crossed that

sand-slide twice since, I have always funked it.

It was dark when we floundered out of it, and we steered straight for

a wide thicket of willows, made a big fire, and were only too glad to

turn in. It seemed an excellent camp, with wood, water, and shelter

from the cold wind, but it was plain that the “boys” were uneasy, and

they crouched close to our fire instead of building one apart as they

usually did. After some food Ezaak suggested that we might perhaps

trek on a little farther, and this, coming after a most arduous day,

was decidedly strange. We asked him why, and after beating about the

bush for a bit he told me that in the middle of the river, and exactly

opposite where we were camped, was a big rock in which the huge snake

(the “Groot Slang,” in which every Richtersfeldt Hottentot firmly

believes) had his home, and that it was not safe for us or for our

horses.

We had long heard of this snake; many reputable Hottentots and a few

white men claim to have seen it, many more have seen its huge spoor

in the sand or mud--a foot and a half wide. It is believed to take

cattle from the banks, and the natives fear it mightily. There are no

crocodiles in the Orange, and, besides, there are never any traces of

feet with the spoor, but it is a remarkable fact that the Hottentot

name for this huge python--or whatever it may be--is “Ki-man,” which is

very like the Eastern name for an alligator.

Anyhow, we were far too tired to care for snakes, and of course stayed

where we were, the only thing to annoy us being the huge long-legged

tarantulas that kept running with incredible swiftness into the fire,

where they sizzled, squirmed, and smelt unpleasantly.

In the morning we found that the river here was a long, wide, still,

and apparently very deep stretch of water, and that a big rock rose

from the centre, as the guides had said. It appeared to be of granite,

and was riven in half by a big cleft. The steep mud banks of the river

should have shown a trace of anything coming from the water, but we

found no spoor. So we made up some dynamite cartridges with fuse and

detonator, and flung them out as far as we could, and stood by with the

“arsenal” handy in case the “Groot Slang” was at home and objected. The

dynamite made a big upheaval, but no snake materialised; only a few

small springers and barbel flapped round in the muddy water.

Then I saw something moving in the crack in the rock, and let drive

with my rifle. I was in a hurry, and I heard my bullet hit the

landscape somewhere in German territory; but Ransson had seen that

movement too, and was emptying his magazine into the crack without

undue loss of time. When we’d finished a very flustered and indignant

old wild duck squatted out of that crack and went away unhurt and

quacking most derisively. No luck again with our “big game” shooting.

A hard day’s trek again and we left the river, climbed up a sandy

incline between hills of black hornblende schist where faint

wheel-marks showed that we were on an old beaten track, and cutting

across country, at about ten at night we again came to the river at

Zendling’s Drift. And the crowing of a cock, and the barking of a dog

from the other bank, were as music in our ears, for the loneliness of

this deserted land was beginning to tell upon us.

Scarce was our camp fire blazing when we heard a great shouting and

splashing in the river below, and three or four Hottentots came across

to find out who we were. They were working for the German police, who

had a post on the further bank. The splashing and shouting is always

done by these Hottentots when crossing the river at night--for fear

of the “Groot Slang.” They have no boats, but at various places along

the banks long dry logs may be seen lying with a peg driven in on one

side. These poles they use to help them in crossing, holding the peg

and pushing this primitive raft before them.

CHAPTER X

ZENDLING’S DRIFT--JACKAL’S BERG--THE RESULT OF TOO MUCH WHYMPER--HUGE

NUGGET OF NATIVE COPPER--A DIFFICULT PASS--KUBOOS--DEGENERATE

NATIVES--BACK TO PORT NOLLOTH.

Zendling’s (Missionary’s) Drift received its name from the fact that

the first missionaries to enter Damaraland crossed the Orange at this

spot. There is no kind of settlement on the English side, and at the

time of this first visit of mine the Germans had not commenced building

the substantial police post that now commands the drift, their few

police being encamped among the trees some distance from the river.

The whole river, by the by, has always belonged to the British, whose

territory extends 100 yards above high-water mark on the northern bank.

Having seen no other white men since we left Port Nolloth, and feeling

sociable, Ransson and I swam the river with an idea of paying the

Germans a visit, but I felt shy when I got out of the water, and sat

down well within British territory. Ransson, however, had brought over

clean pyjamas in a bundle on his head, and clad in these he coolly

sauntered off to the camp, where, I believe, they turned out the guard

and signalled to Warmbad for reinforcements. He turned up later with

some nice biltong, and for the rest of the day did nothing but brag

about the beer and schnapps he had been regaled with. He also most

considerately breathed upon me now and then, and altogether I did not

come off so badly.

The country near Zendling’s Drift is open and sandy. Upstream and

some distance away from the river there are some extraordinary

river-terraces of great height, on the flat surfaces of which sun,

wind, and sand have combined to polish the beautifully coloured

pebbles of ironstone, jasper, agate, chalcedony, and other stones in

the most wonderful manner.

These ancient gravels gave great promise of being diamondiferous, and

here and there among the pebbles a huge water-worn crystal would bring

our hearts into our mouths with its perfect resemblance to a rough

Koh-i-noor; but we had no means of working the gravels with us and

found no diamonds. We questioned our “boys” about diamonds--they had

heard vague rumours of those at Luderitzbucht, and they spoke of a big

one that had been sold at Steinkopf years ago for many cattle.

Just above the drift on the German side there is a remarkable and

beautiful mountain called by the Germans the “Lorelei.” It is

triple-peaked, like a Bishop’s mitre, and affords a striking background

to the placid stretches of tree-fringed river below it. Behind it,

northward, the ranges are exceptionally high and rugged. Southward, on

our bank, there is a tract of several miles of country covered with

an absolute maze of quartz outcrops, literally thousands of them, but

mostly hungry and barren; and in the mountains behind them there are

many old copper workings, mostly dating from the time of Alexander’s

venture, but some, far more ancient, the work of Hottentots, who used

copper hammers and gads for their work. But by far the most striking of

all the mineral outcrops that this sterile and desolate region affords

is to be seen about a mile below the drift, where the river twists

abruptly round a hog-backed, precipitous hill some 800 feet high.

This hill is known as Jackal’s Berg, and from the southern spur of it

there outcrops a most wonderful reef of hæmatite. Huge black blocks

of it, each of many tons in weight, have rolled down the slope into a

valley of pure white quartz adjoining it, and the effect of the glaring

contrast of colour in the strong sunshine is remarkable. The reef

extends for many miles, the ore is extremely high-grade and with a very

low percentage of sulphur, and will some day be of great value. Near

this reef, and a few miles lower downstream, there spreads a region

of comparatively recent volcanic activity, a gruesome wilderness of

scorched scoriæ, calcined shale, and schist, with innumerable outcrops

of iron ore, all absolutely barren of any trace of verdure, dead and

desolate as one imagines the craters of the moon. And below this the

tangle of trees and bush bordering the river was an absolute jungle

that we tried in vain to break through, and here in a patch of bare

sand I saw more leopard spoors than I had ever seen before.

Thus, riding out each day in a different direction, we spent some time

at the drift waiting for our waggon, living on the few things that fell

to our guns--bush doves, a hare or two, and a still rarer klipbok,

grilling the flesh on the ashes and eating it without bread, salt, or

any other sauce but hunger to make it palatable, for the few stores we

had brought in our saddle-bags were long since exhausted. Each evening

Hottentots came over from the German camp, but we could get neither

stores nor news from them of the native we had hoped to find there--the

guide to the lost copper mountain.

Apart from our shortness of stores, our anxiety for the arrival of the

waggon was accentuated by the fact that we were literally in rags,

for we had nothing but the clothes we stood in, and thorns and sharp

rocks had torn them to ribbons; moreover, the fierce heat had played

havoc with our _veldtschoens_, which had to be cobbled every day with

fragments of rimpi, and which had assumed such dimensions that they

would no longer go through the stirrups. But at length the waggon

turned up, having had a terrific time in Hell’s Kloof, and having been

patched and cobbled till it matched our boots.

I now learnt from Peter that the guide we were looking for had gone to

stay at Kuboos, and I therefore sent a message in, with a spare horse

to bring him back.

Four days later he turned up; a tall, elderly Hottentot of grave and

important aspect, who announced himself as being the one and only

veritable guide to my copper mountain. His manner was so impressive

that again I had great hopes that he might be telling the truth. He

kept aloof from the other “boys,” expected--and obtained--better

rations than they did, and altogether appeared to be a pillar of

strength. But all our questioning was unavailing; he would take us to

the spot, but would tell us nothing as to its whereabouts except that

we should have to return upstream.

We had been bitten badly before, and as he understood Dutch we

painstakingly explained to him that it was our custom to make our

guides eat all copper mines or mountains that did not come up to

expectations. He smiled so superciliously, and was so dignified withal,

that we decided to turn back once more under his guidance. So, changing

our tatters, and filling our saddle-bags anew, we sent the waggon back

to Kuboos, and, guided by the egregious Jacob and with a diminutive

little Namaqua as a fourth, we retraced our steps along the river-bank,

upstream.

We rested again at the “Ki-man Klip” and tried to lure the big snake

out by means of dynamite, but without avail. We again negotiated

without mishap the various bad places, though my state of blue funk

whilst crossing the sand-slide was not lessened by the fact that a

big crowd of baboons kept pace with us on the rocks above, hooting,

barking, and occasionally sending big stones down at us. But,

scratched, torn, ragged, and sun-flayed, but otherwise sound, we at

length found ourselves back in the Tatas Bergen--where several of

our pegs were already standing. Soon we were on our old tracks, as

our guide stalked up a well-known ravine, and I could see murder in

Ransson’s eye as he chewed at his old brier. But one by one we passed

the ravines leading to our other pegs, and when at length we had to

leave our horses and climb, it was up an entirely new peak, and our

hopes ran high.

At length, on a high ridge, Jacob halted and pointed dramatically

to an outcrop--and copper it was, and a good deal of it. But under

no stretch of the imagination could it be called a “mountain” of

copper--in fact, in no single particular did it answer to the place

described by Preuss.

No! we had been fooled again--though this time I felt our cicerone had

been innocent of intent to deceive, and therefore could not be shot

out of hand--indeed, he had shown us a very nice prospect! So after

we had pegged the spot we sat down and gave him some _tabaki_, and I

questioned him.

“Now, Jacob,” I said, “what sort of a man was this Herr Preuss?”

“Wit man,” he said, promptly.

“Yes, I know he was white, but what was he like? Tall? Short? Fair?

Dark?--what?”

“Ja, Herr Kaptein.” (He always called me “Kaptein” when I gave him

_tabaki_.)

“Was he a big, tall, fair man--like Baas Ransson?”

“Ja, Herr Kaptein.” (Ransson’s about 5 feet, and has the complexion of

a sunburnt Zulu.)

“Lot of hair--big beard like me, eh?”

“Ja, Herr Kaptein.” (I’m bald--no beard.)

“Sure his name was Preuss?”

“Ja, Herr Kaptein.”

“Wasn’t it Smith?”

“Ja, Herr Kaptein.”

“Or Jones--or Brown--or Robinson?”

“Ja, ja, Herr Kaptein.”

“Right,” I said; “this must be the spot. This Court acquits you. Any

man who has been guide to the white man you describe has my sincere

sympathy.”

We spent a few days in the vicinity, finding numerous copper prospects,

and eventually decided to try to reach Kuboos through the mountains

instead of going back by the Orange to Zendling’s Drift. _En route_ we

hoped to be able to look at the “native” copper we had heard so much

about, the road to which was known to both our guides. So we planned to

cross to our previous water-hole in the Gauna Gulip River.

When we arrived at this conclusion we were at a spot some miles from

the Orange, up an unnamed dry river that by compass bearings appeared

to trend in the direction of the Gauna Gulip, from which low, but

rugged and difficult, mountain ridges separated us. So to avoid a

detour of at least two days, we decided to follow up this unknown

ravine instead of retracing our steps, hoping that it would ultimately

converge into the right river-bed, where we should be near water, of

which we had very little.

All the long afternoon we toiled up the defile, the winding sand-bed

rising until the encompassing rocky walls were only a couple of

hundred feet high, but still too steep for horses. At length, just

about sunset, we came to the end of the crumbling schist and a granite

intrusion rose on either hand--huge rounded boulders the size of

cottages piled one upon another and without a vestige of earth or sand

in the network of cavities between them. And after a few hundred yards

of these we were faced by a low connecting granite _nek_, barring our

progress, and abruptly ending the ravine. Over this we were confident

of finding the Tatas River, from which we could easily reach our

destination. I was riding ahead, and found the _nek_ quite easy of

ascent and scarce a hundred feet high. Up this I rode, crossed a few

yards of ridge and looked down--and nearly fell from the pony in sheer

funk!

For I was at the edge of a sheer precipice of 600 or 700 feet in depth,

its face of horrible, smooth, slippery-looking granite, with scarce a

crack or crevice in it to offer foothold for a cat, and with but a few

huge rounded boulders clinging to its face as by a miracle.

It was almost dark, but in the depths below I could see the sand-river

we were bound for, and could have almost dropped a stone into it--but

to attempt to get down to it--even without the horses--looked sheer

madness!

Ransson and the two guides came up, and the latter shook their heads

and clucked and said we must go back--and go round--which would mean

two days to reach the spot below us! Ransson merely grunted and,

getting off his horse, he rummaged in his saddle-bags and produced a

small book.

Now, I had seen this volume before, and its title was _Rambles among

the Alps_, by Whymper, the great Alpine and Himalayan climber. This

pernicious volume had had a most demoralising effect upon Ransson. I

had frequently noticed that whenever we came to a particularly bad

place, where there was a choice of climbing or going round, he would

climb for preference; whilst I meandered round the base of the peak, he

would carefully pick out the most precipitous part of it, where I would

look up at him and see him apparently hanging on by one eyebrow and

flourishing that infernal book. He talked of “crevasses” and “couloirs”

and “glaciers” and other weird things in his sleep, and once, when

I caught him tobogganing down a sand-slope on his only pants, and

reproached him, he had said disdainfully, “My dear chap, I’m simply

practising ‘glissading.’”

So when he now got out that book, and got under a rock and lit a bit of

candle and began to peruse it, I knew what to expect.

I said, “Look here, Ransson, I’m going back.”

He said, “I’m going down.”

I said, “Right! I’ll bury you when I get there in three days’ time.”

“Rot,” he said; “you’ll never make a mountaineer. Why, look what

Whymper says----”

“Damn Whymper!” I said. “We don’t want Whymper, we want Paulham and

Santos Dumont, and aeroplanes and a balloon or two, and a thousand

yards of rope. I’m going back!”

He said, “You’re not. I’m going to take you down--and the horses.”...

And he did.

We tried in either direction for about an hour; but my way it only

got worse, and I could only hold on, and look over and feel giddy. At

times Ransson whooped at me from some awful perch, and I bleated back;

then he remembered Whymper again and tried to “yodel.” Luckily, about

then, little Samuel shouted to me, and getting back to the horses I

found that he had discovered a place where a descent for a man might be

practicable, though for horses it looked madness.

Samuel said we must wait for the _nacht zon_ (night sun), as he called

the moon, and so in the dark we sat and waited for it to rise, whilst

the “boys” clucked and muttered and Ransson sucked his empty pipe and

took intermittent counsel from Whymper by matchlight, and I funked and

worried and wondered why I hadn’t the moral courage to take the whole

crowd back! At long last came the moon, and we started, Sam in advance,

then Ransson and his horse, then Jacob and the pack-mule, whilst I

led my horse, and the expedition, strategically from the rear. For

two hours we clung and stumbled and slid diagonally across and down

that almost perpendicular face, clinging to shrubs, following cracks

where we actually had to place the horses’ hoofs for them, urging them

to scramble over horrible little water-worn places where, once they

lost momentum or hesitated, they must have gone to the bottom, and

eventually striking a very narrow ledge where there was sand and a

firmer footing. I hugged myself, for we surely must be half-way down;

in fact, I had just begun to whistle from sheer relief when Sam--who

had gone on ahead--came back.

We must go back, he said; it was impossible to get through that way; we

must try back above the sand.

Then Ransson went and had a look, and at last I did myself. The

sand-gully ended in a fairly level patch flanked by titanic granite

boulders, and, creeping between, we again looked down a sheer

precipice--in fact, this particular spot overhung the sand about three

hundred feet below. We were dog-tired, and I refused flatly to go a

step farther in the treacherous moonlight. So we off-saddled and turned

in, the last straw being our discovery that the water-bags on the

pack-mule were empty, bone dry. The “boys” had been helping themselves;

and that night we thirsted.

In the morning, parched and anxious, we started back and tried another

route, and after four hours of nightmare, during which Ransson, who

was now ahead, absolutely built a path for the horses over hundreds of

feet, we came safely to the bottom.

A couple of hours’ hurried trek and we reached Gauna Gulip, passing

plenty of springbok on the way and not even troubling to shoot at

them--we were too thirsty.

We found the water in the sand-hole practically finished, and the

trickle quite insufficient to satisfy us, and had to be content with

a kettleful of the horrible stagnant liquid from the open pool,

foul, stinking, and full of animalcules. We strained it through a

handkerchief and made some coffee, and after a brief rest again trekked

up the river-bed, coming at sunset to the base of an abrupt range of

fantastic peaks which appeared impassable. Here we found a tiny pool

of fairly good water, and as our guides told us the huge nugget of

native copper we had come to see lay in the slope above us, we cried

a halt and slept there. In the morning, to my dismay, I found that

Ransson had fever, and though he climbed up to look at the copper, he

was manifestly ill. Close by the tiny pool of water there stood an old

deserted hut of dry branches which offered some little shade from the

terrific heat, and into this he crawled, having taken the last of our

quinine, whilst I took hammer and cold chisel and made my way once more

up to the big nugget. It is an enormous mass of absolutely pure copper,

4 or 5 feet in length, with a girth of 7 or 8 feet--and weighing

several tons.

I endeavoured to cut off a projecting point with hammer and chisel,

the big mass of metal giving forth a most sonorous, bell-like sound at

every stroke I struck, and the effect of the loud ringing clang echoing

from peak to peak in this wild and desolate spot was startling in the

extreme. The mass has been rolled down from the spot, some 40 feet

above, where it once formed an outcrop, and here a shaft of about 8

feet has been sunk, disclosing a thin vein of native copper leading

down from it.

This big “nugget,” which is by far the largest discovered in South

Africa, and is only equalled in size by the huge masses of Lake

Superior, belongs to Mr. Giffen, a Port Nolloth prospector.

I found Ransson still asleep, but when he awoke he said that though

he felt better he had been light-headed a lot, imagining he’d heard a

big church bell ringing all the time! I told him about what I had been

doing with the copper, and he seemed much relieved to find that the

noise had been real instead of imaginary, and would not hear of resting

any longer, though he was obviously unfit to ride.

The guide’s idea had been to cross from this spot to the Gold Camp, and

thence through Hell’s Kloof to Kuboos, where we had sent the waggon;

but this was old ground to us, and we wished to try a new route.

At length Jacob said that he had once been through a pass which would

make a much shorter journey for us, but it was very difficult on foot,

and he doubted if horses could be got through. But after our experience

of the day before anything might be possible, and we decided to try it.

As it would be moonlight we did not start till the cool of evening.

Our track led across difficult foothills of granite débris, broken by

innumerable ravines, to where a gap in the mountain barrier marked

the entrance to the pass. Long before reaching it we struck a dry

river-bed, pleasant with _cameel-doorn_, mimosa, and other greenery,

whilst here and there thick beds of reeds showed that moisture was

still in the soil. Altogether a very pleasant valley, but gradually

the encircling peaks of tilted quartzite narrowed in, and at dusk we

entered a gloomy ravine that led us to a narrow point. Through this,

and we were in an absolute cañon. On either hand the river cliffs

towered up hundreds of feet, in places absolutely overhanging, whilst

the narrow stream-bed up which we struggled was a chaos of fallen

rocks, débris, and huge boulders.

Through this cramped Krantz the wind, concentrated as though driven

through the nozzle of a huge bellows, tore with such force that we

could scarcely make headway even where the going was fair. But hour

after hour we blundered and stumbled and fought our way through this

hideous gorge, in almost Cimmerian darkness, for we had been wrong in

depending upon the moon; her light could scarcely reach us for hours

after the open country had been made almost as light as day. Ransson

was delirious and talking all sorts of rot, and yelling and singing

defiance to the wind, and I was thankful indeed when at length the

moon did appear overhead, and light up our difficult path. Then,

suddenly, the profound gully ended, and we had to negotiate a slope

of quite 45 degrees with scarce foothold for a cat, scrambling up,

and up, breathlessly to a great height. A brief rest on a saddle-back

ridge, a downward plunge into darkness again, through rocks, thorn,

and other impedimenta, and again we were in the gorge. At length we

emerged into a deep crater-like valley surrounded by high peaks,

where we off-saddled and slept beside a tiny pool of water. Morning

showed us most surprising surroundings. We were, in truth, in an

actual crater, the huge encircling walls of which were of a new and

extremely interesting formation. A huge upheaval had taken place at

some remote period, and the riven rocks now reared aloft in abrupt

peaks were of alternate layers of quartzite and of a conglomerate of a

similar nature to the so-called _banket_ of the Rand. Enormous masses

of this “pudding stone,” fallen from the peaks above, now cumbered

the slopes on every side, and the beds of the ravines were full of

it. The peaks showed over a thousand feet of alternate beds of this

ferruginous conglomerate, and its resemblance to the gold-bearing reef

of Johannesburg was so great that we thought we had stumbled on a new

El Dorado.

However, our first few eager pannings were disappointing, for they

showed no free gold; but we had neither tools nor time for a proper

test, for our stores were exhausted, Ransson was still full of fever,

and the fact that a leopard had taken old Ezaak’s dog, quite close to

us, as we had lain sleeping the sleep of exhaustion by the pool, and

without a fire, warned us that we should have dangerous neighbours if

we stayed.

Still, we should certainly return, so with the few samples we could

carry at our saddle-bows we climbed by dangerous paths out of this

strange abyss, passing over ridge after ridge of the same sort of

rock, till late in the afternoon we could see, through a gap in the

mountains westward, yet another range whose characteristic shape showed

them to be granite, and beyond the spur of them a wide, dim expanse

of plain. “Kuboos,” said Jacob, pointing to where mountain and plain

met, and late that night we rode into a dry river-bed where, close to a

beautiful trickle of actually clean water, our waggon was waiting.

Kuboos is really the only “permanent” centre for the Richtersfeldt

Hottentots, for here they have a tiny stone-built mission church,

round which cluster a variable number of mat _pondhoeks_. Practically

the whole of the population called on us the following morning,

bringing goat’s milk in various weird receptacles, amongst them a

number of women and girls of all sizes, all chattering and laughing

gaily, in absolute contrast to the taciturnity of the men. Many of

the younger women were quite good-looking, though their faces were

mostly adorned with the hideous smears of soot and ochre with which

they delight to paint themselves. Each woman carried at her waist

a small tortoise-shell as a “beauty box,” in which was kept these

“beautifiers,” together with a hare’s tail, some sweet-smelling buchu

leaves, and other weird toilet essentials.

Kuboos itself is absolutely without interest. The church, huts, etc.,

stand upon bare foothills of decomposed granite without a sign of

vegetation, for the only “lands” the natives cultivate lie high up

on the top of the magnificent granite range that towers above the

settlement, the path to them being so steep that the corn is brought

down in sleds.

Prominent amongst the soaring peaks of this bold granite barrier is a

striking castellated cluster known as “Kuboos Tower,” the pillars and

buttresses of which might well have been piled aloft by some titanic

builder.

These Hottentots of Kuboos are wretchedly poor, for though nominally a

tiny commonwealth sharing equally their belongings, the fine herds of

cattle and flocks of sheep occasionally met with in the locality do not

belong to them, but to old Jasper Cloete, their nominal chief, a fat,

wily old chap, who could never be cajoled into embracing Christianity

when once he had grasped the fact that to do so he should give up all

his goods and chattels to the common weal. He could hardly be blamed!

Indolent, shiftless, and hopelessly degenerate, these Richtersfeldt

Hottentots, nominally Christians, have all the failings of their

savage forefathers, and of the white man whose “faith” they have

adopted, without the good qualities of either. They have been taught

to chant a few hymns, parrot-fashion, and some of the outward forms of

“Christianity” as disseminated by the Berlin Mission; but witchcraft,

demonology, and all the beliefs of their ancient and more robust

savagery still dominate them when once they are outside their little

stone church at Kuboos. Avowedly, they believe in a resurrection--and

they are devout enough to forgather from far and wide to partake of

_nachtmaal_ once a year. Really, they believe that the soul of the

newly departed takes possession of a jackal--known to them as the

_K’nas Jackhals_, and many a time have I seen the _ouderlings_ (elders)

of this Christian Mission crouching round a camp fire in abject fear

because an unusual-looking jackal had been seen sniffing round the

camp, and they imagined one of the party was about to die and that

the uncanny animal was prowling round waiting for his soul. A mass of

superstition, a race of cadging, whining beggars, the only qualities

they ever possessed--hardihood, courage, endurance--have been

emasculated by their newly acquired “religion,” and they are the least

likeable of any natives I have ever had to suffer.

A few days of interesting prospecting in the vicinity, and I received

a mail with instructions to return temporarily to Cape Town; so,

paying off the “boys,” we sent the waggon direct to Port Nolloth,

whilst Ransson and myself, with our horses and a pack-mule in charge

of little Samuel, took the circuitous route down to the Orange, near

Aries Drift, to look at certain supposed nitrate deposits there, thence

striking across open country to the coast near Buchu Bay, from whence

we followed the coast down to Port Nolloth.

And those last few days were crammed with more discomfort than all the

rest of the trip put together!

For a howling sand-storm battered and choked and half blinded us by

the river, and when, our work finished there, we struck across to the

coast late at night, we were enveloped in a dense sea-fog that drenched

us to the skin. It was intensely cold, too, and when we off-saddled

and tried to sleep we were soon half frozen. Then the sam-pans tackled

us, and I got up with both eyes swollen so that I could not see out of

them, and in a state of intolerable irritation. The sand was very heavy

going, and for two days we rode along the coast against a wind that

the ponies could hardly stand up against, the sand blowing into us at

such a rate that I felt grateful to the sam-pans for bunging my eyes

up. Nothing but monotonous scrub and sand the whole way made the ride

seem interminable, but at length the wind bore the tolling of a bell

to us--the bell-buoy of Port Nolloth--and soon after we rode into that

fag-end of creation itself.

We were in rags, and so frayed and blistered by exposure that we were

not recognised by people who knew us well in the little dorp.

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 for small 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 one we

had placed _hors 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 following day

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 friends bidding 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.