DESCRIBES THE SOMEWHAT CURIOUS BEGINNING OF SETTLER-LIFE IN SOUTH
AFRICA.
Leaping over time and space with that hilarious mental bound which is so
easy and enjoyable to writers and readers, let us fold our wings at
early morn in the month of May, and drop down on the heights in the
vicinity of Algoa Bay.
The general aspect of the bay is sandy and sterile. On its blue waters
many large vessels lie at anchor. Some of them are trim, with furled
sails and squared yards, as if they had been there for a considerable
time. Others have sails and spars loose and awry, as if they had just
arrived. From these latter many an emigrant eye is turned wistfully on
the shore. The rising ground on which we stand is crowned by a little
fortress, or fortified barrack, styled Fort Frederick, around which are
the marquees of the officers of the 72nd regiment. Below, on the range
of sandhills which fringe the beach, are pitched a multitude of canvas
tents, and among these upwards of a thousand men, women, and children
are in busy motion. There are only one or two small wooden houses
visible, and three thatched cottages. Down at the water's edge, and
deep in the surf, crowds of soldiers, civilians, and half-naked natives
are busy hauling on the ropes attached to the large surfboats, which are
covered to overflowing with human beings. Those in the boats, as well
as those in the surf and on the beach, are in a state of high
excitement, and more or less demonstrative, while the seamen from a
neighbouring sloop of war, who manage the boats, shout to the people at
the ropes. The replies of these are drowned, ever and anon, by the roar
of falling "rollers." These rollers, or great waves, calm though the
morning be, come in with giant force from the mighty sea. They are the
mere termination of the ocean-swell.
Reader, the scene before you marks an epoch of vast importance in South
African history. It is the "landing of the British Settlers" in the
year 1820. The spot is that on which now stands the flourishing
commercial town of Port Elizabeth, styled, not inappropriately, by its
inhabitants, the "Liverpool of South Africa."
Standing near the stern of one of the surf-boats, his strong right hand
grasping the gunwale, and his grave eyes fixed on the shore, one of the
exiles from Scotland lifted his voice that day and said--
"Hech, sirs! it's but a puir, ill-faur'd, outlandish sort o' country. I
wad fain hope the hieland hills of our location inland are mair
pleasant-lookin' than this."
"Keep up your spirits, Sandy Black," observed a sturdy Highlander who
stood at his side; "those who know the country best say that our
location is a splendid one--equal to Scotland itself, if not superior."
"It may be so, Mr McTavish," replied Sandy, in a doubtful tone of
voice, "it _may_ be so."
"Hallo!" suddenly and loudly exclaimed a dapper little man, whose voice
betokened him English.
"What is't, Jerry?" demanded Sandy Black, turning his eyes seaward, in
which direction Jerry was gazing.
The question needed no reply, for Sandy, and indeed all the various
people in the barge who stood high enough on its sides or lading to be
able to look over the gunwale, observed a mighty wave coming up behind
them like a green wall.
"Haul hard!" roared the seamen in charge.
"Ay, ay," shouted the soldiers on shore.
As they spoke the billow lifted the boat as if it had been a cork, fell
under it with a deafening roar and bore it shoreward in a tumult of
seething foam. Next moment the wave let it down with a crash and
retired, leaving it still, however, in two or three feet of water.
"Eh, man, but that _was_ a dunt!" exclaimed Sandy, tightening his hold
on the gunwale, while several of his less cautious or less powerful
neighbours were sent sprawling into the bottom of the boat among
terrified women and children.
All was now bustle and tenfold excitement, for the soldiers on the beach
hurried waist-deep into the sea for the purpose of carrying the future
settlers on shore.
Thomas Pringle, the leader of the Scotch party, and who afterwards
became known as the "South African poet" had previously landed in a gig.
He gave an opportune hint, in broad Scotch, to a tall corporal of the
72nd Highlanders to be careful of his countrymen.
"Scotch folk, are they?" exclaimed the corporal, with a look of surprise
at Pringle. "Never fear, sir, but we sal be carefu' o' _them_."
The corporal was as good as his word, for he and his comrades carried
nearly the whole party ashore in safety. But there were others there
who owned no allegiance to the corporal. One of these--a big sallow
Hottentot--chanced to get Jerry, surnamed Goldboy, on his shoulders,
and, either by mischance or design, stumbled and fell, pitching Jerry
over his head, just as another billow from the Indian Ocean was rushing
to the termination of its grand career. It caught Jerry up in a loving
embrace as he rose, and pitched him with a noisy welcome on the shore.
"Weel done, Jerry!" cried Sandy Black, who had just been overturned by
the same wave from the shoulders of a burly Englishman--a previously
landed settler--"you an' me's made an impressive landin'. Come, let's
git oot o' the bustle."
So saying the stout Lowlander seized his little English friend by the
arm and dragged him towards the town of canvas which had within a few
weeks sprung up like mushrooms among the sandhills.
Although wet from head to foot, each forgot his condition in the
interest awakened by the strange sights and sounds around him. Their
immediate neighbourhood on the beach was crowded with emigrants, as
party after party was carried ashore shoulder-high by the soldiers, who
seemed to regard the whole affair as a huge practical joke.
The noise was indescribable, because compound. There was the boisterous
hilarity of people who felt their feet once more on solid ground, after
a long and weary voyage; the shouting of sailors and bargemen in the
boats, and of soldiers and natives on the beach; the talking and
laughing of men and women who had struck up sudden friendships on
landing, as well as of those who had crossed the sea together; the
gambolling and the shrieking delight of children freed from the
restraints of shipboard; the shouts of indignant Government officials
who could not get their orders attended to; the querulous demands of
people whose luggage had gone astray in process of debarkation; the
bawling of colonial Dutch by gigantic Dutch-African farmers, in
broad-brimmed hats and leathern crackers, with big tobacco-pipes in
their mouths; the bellowing of oxen in reply to the pistol-shot cuts
applied to their flanks by half-naked Hottentots and Bushmen, whose
whips were bamboos of twenty feet or so in length, with lashes twice as
long; the creaking of Cape-waggons, the barking of dogs, and, as a
measured accompaniment to all, the solemn regular booming of the
restless sea.
Disengaging themselves from the crowded beach, Sandy Black and Jerry
Goldboy proceeded towards the town of tents among the sandhills. On
their way they passed several large tarpaulin-covered depots of
agricultural implements, carpenter's and blacksmith's tools, and
ironware of all descriptions, which had been provided by Government to
be sold to the settlers at prime cost--for this grand effort at
colonisation was originated and fostered by the British Government.
"Weel, weel, did ever 'ee see the like o' that, noo?" observed Sandy
Black, as he passed some sandhills covered with aloes and cactuses and
rare exotics, such as one might expect to find in English greenhouses.
"Well, yes," replied Jerry Goldboy, "them _are_ hodd lookin' wegitables.
I can't say that I've much knowledge of such-like myself, 'avin' bin
born an' bred in London, as I've often told you, but they do seem
pecooliar, even to me.--I say, look 'ere; I thought all the people 'ere
was settlers."
Sandy, who was a grave man of few words, though not without a touch of
sly humour, replied, "Weel, so they are--an' what than?"
"Why, w'at are them there?" demanded Jerry, pointing to several marquees
pitched apart among some evergreen bushes.
"H'm! 'ee may ask that," replied the Scot; but as he did not add more,
his companion was content to regard his words as a confession of
ignorance, and passed on with the remark, "haristocrats."
Jerry was so far right. The marquees referred to belonged to the higher
class of settlers, who had resolved to forsake their native land and
introduce refinement into the South African wilds. The position chosen
by them on which to pitch their tents, and the neatness of everything
around, evinced their taste, while one or two handsome carriages
standing close by betokened wealth. Some of the occupants, elegantly
dressed, were seated in camp-chairs, with books in their hands, while
others were rambling among the shrubbery on the little eminences and
looking down on the bustling beach and bay. The tents of these,
however, formed an insignificant proportion of the canvas town in which
Sandy Black and his friend soon found themselves involved.
"Settlers' Camp," as it was called, consisted of several hundred tents,
pitched in parallel rows or streets, and was occupied by the middle and
lower class of settlers--a motley crew, truly. There were jolly farmers
and pale-visaged tradesmen from various parts of England, watermen from
the Thames, fishermen from the seaports, artisans from town and country,
agricultural labourers from everywhere, and ne'er-do-weels from nowhere
in particular. England, Scotland, Ireland, were represented--in some
cases misrepresented,--and, as character was varied, the expression of
it produced infinite variety. Although the British Government had
professedly favoured a _select_ four thousand out of the luckless ninety
thousand who had offered themselves for emigration, it is to be feared
that either the selection had not been carefully made, or drunkenness
and riotous conduct had been surprisingly developed on the voyage out.
Charity, however, requires us to hope that much of the excitement
displayed was due to the prospect of being speedily planted in rural
felicity in the wilds of Africa. Conversation, at all events, ran
largely on this theme, as our wanderers could easily distinguish--for
people talked loudly, and all tent-doors were wide open.
After wandering for some time, Sandy Black paused, and looking down at
his little friend with what may be called a grave smile, gave it as his
opinion that they had got lost "in Settlers'-toon."
"I do believe we 'ave," assented Jerry. "What's to be done?"
"Gang to the best hotel," suggested Sandy.
"But where _is_ the best 'otel?"
"H'm! 'ee may ask that."
A burst of noisy laughter just behind them caused the lost ones to turn
abruptly, when they observed four tall young men of gentlemanly aspect
sitting in a small military tent, and much amused apparently at their
moist condition.
"Why, where did you two fellows come from?" asked one of the youths,
issuing from the tent.
"From England and Scotland," replied Jerry Goldboy promptly.
"From the sea, I should say," returned the youth, "to judge from your
wet garments."
"Ay, we've been drookit," said Sandy Black.
"Bring 'em in, Jack," shouted one of the other youths in the tent.
"Come inside," said he who was styled Jack, "and have a glass of whisky.
There's nothing like whisky to dry a wet skin, is there, Scotty?"
To this familiar appeal Sandy replied, "m-h'm," which word, we may add
for the information of foreigners, is the Scotch for "Yes."
"Sit down there on the blankets," said the hospitable Jack, "we haven't
got our arm-chairs or tables made yet. Allow me to introduce my two
brothers, James and Robert Skyd; my own name is the less common one of
John. This young man of six feet two, with no money and less brain, is
not a brother--only a chum--named Frank Dobson. Come, fill up and
drink, else you'll catch a cold, or a South African fever, if there is
such a thing. Whom shall I pledge?"
"My name is Jerry Goldboy," said the Englishman; "your health,
gentlemen."
"'Am Sandy Black," said the Scot; "here's t'ee."
"Well, Mr Black and Mr Coldboy"--Goldboy, interposed Jerry--"I speak
for my brothers and friend when I wish you all success in the new land."
"Do talk less, Jack," said Robert Skyd, the youngest brother, "and give
our friends a chance of speaking--Have you come ashore lately!"
"Just arrived," answered Jerry.
"I thought so. You belong to the Scotch party that goes to Baviaans
River, I suppose?" asked Frank Dobson.
This question led at length to a full and free account of the
circumstances and destination of each party, with which however we will
not trouble the reader in detail.
"D'ee ken onything aboot Baviaans River?" inquired Sandy Black, after a
variety of subjects had been discussed.
"Nothing whatever," answered John Skyd, "save that it is between one and
two hundred miles--more or less--inland among the mountains, and that
its name, which is Dutch, means the River of Baboons, its fastnesses
being filled with these gentry."
"Ay, I've heard as much mysel'," returned Sandy, "an' they say the
craters are gey fierce. Are there ony o' the big puggies in the Albany
district?"
"No, none. Albany is too level for them. It lies along the sea-coast,
and is said to be a splendid country, though uncomfortably near the
Kafirs."
"The Kawfirs. Ay. H'm!" said Sandy, leaving his hearers to form their
own judgment as to the meaning of his words.
"An' what may _your_ tred be, sir?" he added, looking at John Skyd.