I well remember the first wedding which took place at "New Rush." It

must have been in the summer of 1871. Close to my dwelling an enormous

circus tent had been pitched, and this was hired for the occasion. A

dance was held in the evening, but it ended in disaster, for a heavy

thunderstorm broke, with violent wind, and the tent collapsed on the

guests. Had a torrential rain not been falling a horrible catastrophe

might have occurred, for the reason that the festive scene was lit with

paraffin lamps. However, the canvas was so completely soaked that it

could not ignite. But the dancers were held, prone on the ground, by

the weight of the sodden material for quite a long time, and the ladies

afforded a sorry spectacle as they were hauled out, one by one, by

their rescuers. The name of the bridegroom was Cooper. I was destined

to meet him at Pretoria a few years afterwards under very extraordinary

circumstances. The episode will be related in due course.

A well-known man at Du Toit's Pan in the early days was "Old Moore." I

forget what his profession was. Moore was quite sixty years of age, and

was exceedingly corpulent; nevertheless, he was amorous to a degree.

There was a remarkably pretty barmaid at Benning and Martin's bar, and

with her Moore fell in love. This circumstance was a source of great

amusement to the local gilded youth. A plot was concocted, the lady

consenting to take part in it.

A certain D approached Moore and persuaded him that it was only fear of

her employers on the part of the damsel that prevented her receiving

his addresses more kindly, but that if an elopement could be arranged

she would be willing to accompany him. At the same time the manner of

the fair one altered; she met her admirer's gaze with a disingenuously

languishing eye, she pressed his hand at meeting and at parting, she

replied to his frequent letters in fervent if ungrammatical terms. Old

Moore was in the seventh heaven of delighted anticipation.

D acted the part of mutual friend. The details of the elopement were

duly arranged; it was to take place on the following Saturday night,

after the bar had closed. The lady's absence would thus not be noticed,

the bar being closed on Sunday. By Monday the lovers would be over the

Boshof Hills and far away across the wide plains of the Orange Free

State. Old Moore acquiesced ecstatically, and engaged, at a very heavy

cost, a cart with a spanking team of horses.

At the specified time, 12.30 a.m. on Sunday, the equipage stood ready

at the appointed spot. Soon a cloaked figure, heavily veiled, was seen

to approach with faltering steps, leaning on the arm of the mutual

friend. The latter whispered to the impatient lover that the lady felt

her position keenly, and begged that she might be left to herself for a

time until her feelings became composed. Shrinkingly and in silence she

climbed into the cart. Moore followed, and a start was made along the

Boshof road.

The first stopping-place was at a wayside hotel a few miles out. Here

Moore alighted for the purpose of obtaining some refreshment. On

returning to the cart he was astonished to find that his companion had

so far recovered from her nervousness as to be able to alight as well.

She was standing in the road. A full moon, appropriate to the occasion

in more senses than one, was shining. Feeling that the time had arrived

when he might assume the privileges of a lover, Moore approached and

attempted to slip an arm around his charmer's waist. To his

astonishment, however, she lifted up her skirts and began to dance a

"can-can" in the road. It then became apparent that her legs were

clothed in trousers. The lady was at home in bed; she had been

personated by a graceless young cub whose stature was about the same as

hers.

The morning market at "New Rush" used to be crowded by wagons loaded

with game. Most of this was shot on the flats beyond the Boshof Hills

that range which is visible, about ten miles to the north-eastward,

from Kimberley. I have seen hundreds of springbucks sold for a shilling

apiece; blesbucks and wildebeeste for half a crown. The tails of the

latter were in great demand for use as "chowries" wherewith to keep off

the flies. I have seen a pound of fresh butter sold for seventeen and

sixpence, a dish of peas for thirty shillings, and a head of cabbage

for thirty five. The latter prices were, of course, quite exceptional.

Shortly after the summer of 1871 set in, I, in common with many others,

went down with enteric fever. Doctors were plentiful enough, but there

was no hospital, and nurses were unknown. However, with the help of a

sound constitution I managed to keep alive on a diet of black coffee

and roster koek administered by our Hottentot, David. My most painful

recollections of that horrible time are connected with the plague of

flies. These gave one no rest, night or day, for at night the slightest

movement of the canvas set them buzzing. Better men than I died in

every direction. I got the notion that I, too, would inevitably die

unless I could manage to get away, so by an effort of will I crawled

out of bed and took a passage in the coach for Queenstown.

I collapsed a few hours after starting, but the other passengers were

very kind. The coach was so arranged that they sat facing each other in

a double row, so they made a couch for me with rugs laid on their

knees, and on this I rested. I reached Queenstown more dead than alive,

but a few days of rest there picked me up, and I managed to survive the

post-cart journey to King William's Town.

A few weeks at home, followed by a trip to the seaside near the

Tshalumna Mouth, completed my recovery. No sooner was I well than an

overpowering desire to return to the diamond-fields took possession of

me. A military rummage-sale was held at King William's Town, and at

this I noticed a "condemned" commissariat wagon, which seemed (barring

that it wanted a coat of paint) to have nothing whatever the matter

with it. It was knocked down to me for 5, and I spent 8 on having it

repaired and painted, and in providing the necessary tackle. This wagon

was the best wagon of its kind I have ever owned or traveled in. What

caused it to be classed as "condemned" was a problem none but a

military man could hope to solve. I also purchased eight strong oxen.

One day when strolling along one of the King William's Town streets I

gained a sense that something large and familiar was approaching.

Memory began to stir; yes it was Toby's mouth expanded into Toby's

wholesale smile, and with Toby's long-lost self behind it. He had grown

into a man in the interval since the conflagration and his flight. At

that time the plays of Shakespeare were the only serious literature I

had read. Unbidden, the song of the Page to Mariana which in some

freakish fashion I had always connected with Toby's physiognomy tripped

from my tongue

"Take, O, take those lips away,

That so sweetly were forsworn."

Toby was fortunately disengaged, so we struck a bargain on the spot. He

agreed to accompany me back to the diamond-fields as driver or leader

of my team, as occasion might demand. I next sought around for

something to take with me in the way of trade something that would

ensure profit. I eventually decided upon onions. Colossal varieties of

this wholesome but malodorous vegetable were grown by the German

farmers in the vicinity, and were to be purchased at a reasonable rate.

I obtained twenty full sackfuls, piled them on my wagon, and started.

My cargo smelt to heaven but what of that? I could always, except in

the rare event of rain, sleep well to windward. Nevertheless my nose

suffered great distress during the course of that journey. But the

circumstance that I realized 400 per cent, profit on my venture

consoled me.

I had also acquired a sporting Snider carbine and four hundred

cartridges. This weapon was the worst but one of all the many kickers I

discharged during the years in which most of my spare time was devoted

to killing game. The exception was an elephant gun which I used some

years afterwards, and which made my nose bleed every time I discharged

it. After firing ten shots from my vicious little Snider my shoulder

would turn black and blue. But it could drive a bullet straight, as

many springbucks on the plains of the Orange Free State had good cause

to know.

It had been arranged that at Kimberley I was to be the guest, for a

time, of Major Drury, formerly of the Cape Mounted Riflemen. I fancy

that Major Drury must at the time have been on leave, for when I met

him years afterwards he was in an Indian cavalry regiment. He belonged

to a "mess" at what was known as the "West End." The members of this

mess were camped together on a rise a few hundred yards from the

western end of the mine, in the middle of an immense, straggling city

of galvanized iron and canvas.

It was when Major Drury's guest that I first met Cecil John Rhodes.

Major Drury, Dr. Thorne (formerly of Queenstown), Mr. George Paton (who

afterwards represented Barkly West in Parliament), Mr. H. C. Becher

(subsequently well known in Hatton Garden), Mr. Rhodes and the latter's

brother, Herbert Rhodes, all belonged to this mess. Soon after my

arrival came Frank Rhodes, a bright-faced lad of eighteen, but who

looked considerably younger. He had passed the necessary examinations

and was awaiting a nomination to the army. I have never met any one

possessing such charm of manner as did Frank Rhodes at this period. He

was, I fancy, a year or so younger than his brother Cecil.

Herbert Rhodes, the eldest brother, was a tall, lean, hatchet-faced man

of, I should say, about twenty seven. Although sparely built his

strength was considerable, and he was a splendid boxer. Cecil Rhodes

was long and loose limbed, with blue eyes, ruddy complexion, and light,

curly hair. He was, I think, some three or four years my senior. The

Rhodes brothers occupied a large tent stretched over a skeleton

framework and measuring about sixteen by eighteen feet. I fancy the

site of our camp was the spot known afterwards as "St. Augustines,"

where a mine was subsequently opened.

Within a few yards of the mess tent were camped Norman Garstin and his

partner "Tommy" Townsend. Garstin has since become noted as a painter.

He is, or recently was, the patriarch of the artist colony at Newlyn.

Although Garstin and Townsend did not belong to the Drury Rhodes mess,

they were very intimate with the members thereof. After the completion

of my term as Major Drury's guest, during which I slept in my wagon, I

pitched a tent a few yards away, and messed for a time with Garstin and

his partner. Soon afterwards the original mess was broken up and

reorganized. Several members left and others took their places. Among

the latter were Garstin and I. Another member was Hugh McLeod, who is,

I fancy, still living at Kimberley. I struck my tent and went to live

with the Rhodes brothers in theirs.

Everything connected with any phase in the life of a man such as Cecil

John Rhodes is necessarily of interest, so I will endeavor to recall

what I can of our mutual relations. I received several kindly favors at

his hands, but we never became really intimate. He was even then

somewhat intolerant in discussion. While Rhodes was already a man in

mind and body, I was still a boy, and an ignorant, self-opinionated,

argumentative one at that. Moreover, I was given to practical joking,

and I played off one practical joke upon Cecil Rhodes of which I am

ashamed to this day. When we met, after not having seen each other for

nearly a quarter of a century, I felt sure he still remembered this (to

me) discreditable episode. However, with Frank Rhodes, whose age was

nearer mine, I was more in sympathy. We were, as a matter of fact,

intimate friends the whole of the period upwards of a year during which

we dwelt together. Herbert Rhodes was generally away on some adventure

or another. He appeared to be one of those men to whom constant change

was an imperative necessity.

I can very clearly picture Cecil Rhodes in one of his characteristic

attitudes. After dinner it was his wont to lean forward with both

elbows on the table and his mouth slightly open. He had a habit, when

thinking, of rubbing his chin gently with his forefinger. Very often he

would sit in the attitude described for a very long time, without

joining in whatever conversation happened to be going on. His manner

and expression suggested that his thoughts were far away, but

occasionally some interjection would indicate that, to a certain

extent, he was keeping in touch with the current topic. Indeed, it

often seemed to me that the larger part of his brain was dealing with

something of which no one else had cognizance. Mr. George Paton used to

banter him severely for this peculiarity, but the banter was always

taken in good part.

My first transaction with Cecil Rhodes was over the sale of my wagon.

Within a few months of my arrival the discovery of gold at Marabastad

was much discussed, and an expedition thither, under the leadership of

Herbert Rhodes, was organized. There was difficulty in the matter of

procuring a suitable wagon; eventually I was persuaded to lend mine for

the trip. When the expedition returned, about four months afterwards,

the wagon was a wreck. Naturally I demurred to taking it back.

The question arose as to what compensation I was to receive. It was

known that the vehicle had cost me only 13, but I had, shortly after my

arrival, refused an offer of 35 for it. I now demanded 30. Cecil Rhodes

offered 25, which I declined to accept. After discussing the matter

several times we agreed one afternoon to settle the dispute by means of

a game of euchre. If Rhodes won, the price was to be 25; if victory

declared for me, 30 had to be paid. The first two games out of three,

"seven up," to decide.

A bag of mealie-meal stood in the corner of the tent; I laid this prone

so that it might do duty as a table. Rhodes and I sat down on the

ground, one at each side of the meal bag, and the game began. At first

luck was on the side of my opponent; he ran away with the first game

before I had scored a point, and was soon "all but" in the second. Then

fortune favored me and after a hard tussle I won. When at Groote Schuur

in 1894 I reminded Mr. Rhodes of this occurrence, and found that he

remembered it in every detail.

Among the visitors to our mess tent I recall several who have since

played prominent parts on the world-stage. Among these may be mentioned

Mr. H. C. Seppings Wright, now an artist on the staff of the

Illustrated London News. He occasionally made use of a strange

expression: "Some day I mean to go home and get the drawing." He

apparently meant by this that he intended learning to draw. That Mr.

Wright did "get the drawing" is quite evident from the work he turns

out and the position he holds. I have a vivid recollection of an

excellent pair of top-boots and a very wide scarlet cummerbund which he

used to wear.

Another frequent visitor was Archibald Campbell, who afterwards

distinguished himself in the war between Russia and Turkey, fighting

for the Turks. He came to be known as "Schipka" Campbell on account of

some daring deed connected with the defense of the Schipka Pass, when

he was under the Command of the traitorous Suleiman Pasha. Archibald

Campbell's brother Alister was another guest, also the former's

partner, Reginald Fairlie, who subsequently became a painter, and was

the hero of a very sad and exceedingly dramatic romance. I shall have

occasion to refer to Archibald Campbell later.

Mr. J. X. Merriman dined with us several times. He was at the time in

partnership with Mr. H. C. Becher. Mr. Barry, the first Recorder of the

Griqualand High Court, afterwards Sir Jacob Barry, Judge President of

the Eastern Districts Court, also was our guest. Of the original

members of the mess there are, so far as I know, only four alive. These

are Mr. George Paton, Norman Garstin, Hugh McLeod, and myself.

I well remember one Saturday midnight when the Rhodeses, Campbell,

Fairlie, Garstin, and I returned from a mild spree at Du Toit's Pan.

Close to our camp was a Wesleyan church built of galvanized iron, and

with a rather discordant toned bell at one end. My companions threw me

on to the roof and forced me, under stress of pelting stones, to climb

up the steep pitch and ring the bell. When the indignant inhabitants of

the surrounding tents swarmed out my friends decamped, leaving me

stranded. However, the sand was soft, so I dropped down and managed to

escape.

Cecil Rhodes had a rusty black pony named "Bandersnatch" which

I occasionally rode when shooting, game being more or less

plentiful within a few miles of the mine. He also owned one of the

strangest-looking dogs I have ever seen. It had no vestige of a tail,

and, generally, it bore a strong resemblance to an exaggerated guinea

pig.

In the days I write of Cecil and Herbert Rhodes were working a claim

near the north end of No. 10 Road. They found a fair number of

diamonds, but no large stones. I was working on shares a small piece of

ground in the same road, the property of Gray Barber. By this time the

rudimentary plan of sorting the gravel on one's claim had, of

necessity, been superseded. Every digger had a depositing-floor to

which his ground was carted or harrowed. Of the original surface of

the mine only the roadways were left standing, vast chasms of varying

depth lying between. The "stuff" a green, tenacious, decomposed rock

of the consistency of very tough pot-clay, but granular and abounding

in mica would be loosened with a pick, hauled up to the level of the

road by means of bucket, rope, and pulley, and then conveyed to the

depositing-floor.

The bulk of the native labor at the diamond-fields was drawn from

Bechuanaland and the northern Transvaal. Many of the natives from the

latter vicinity belonged to the Baphedi tribe, whose chief was the

celebrated Sekukuni. These people used to arrive in an unspeakably

miserable physical condition; they had traveled hundreds of miles

almost without food. Literally, they were nothing but skin and bone.

But after a week's feeding on impoop, as they called the mealie-meal

porridge which was their staple food at the mines, they began to pick

up. At the end of a month they would be sleek and in first-rate fettle.

It is practically certain that before leaving home these people had

been instructed in the art of diamond-stealing. That such was the case

may, I think, be inferred from the following incident. A friend of

mine bought six "boys" (we used to buy these creatures from the

labor touts at 1 per head), and put them the same day to work on his

depositing-floor, smashing lumps of "stuff." He and I were sitting

on a heap of sittings watching the poor creatures, who were in an

unspeakably wretched condition. They were perfectly naked, except that

each wore the usual stert reim. In the course of conversation my

friend and I began speculating as to whether one of them would know a

diamond if he saw it.

Just then a certain kind of "sell" was often practiced. One would cut a

piece of alum into the ordinary octahedron form and scrape it so as to

round off the edges. Such a production would make a capital imitation

of a white, frosted stone. The "sell" was practiced thus: You would go

to the sorting table of a friend, stealthily insert the lump of alum

into his heap of gravel, and watch until he found it. The first thing a

man usually did when he found a diamond was to put it into his mouth so

as to remove the dust. The face of a man thus "sold," when he tasted

the alum, was not a pretty sight.

On the occasion in question I happened to have in my pocket a carefully

prepared lump of alum which, had it been a diamond, would have weighed

about fifteen carats. After indicating to my friend what I was about to

do, I walked up close to the heap of clods, bent down as though to tie

my bootlace, and set the mock diamond on the ground. Then I returned to

where I had been sitting. For a minute or so no one was working near

the spot, but soon one of the natives shambled away from his companions

and came towards it. He put his foot on the lump of alum and shambled

on, but the lump had disappeared. My companion wanted to spring up at

once, but I restrained him. The native went on pounding clods for a few

minutes, and then made off as though to pass behind a big heap of

rubbish. We followed and seized him suddenly from behind. He had the

lump of alum firmly grasped between his toes.

Cecil Rhodes's depositing-floor was large and very conveniently

situated close to the edge of the mine. He very kindly gave me a

portion of it to use, thus lightening my labors considerably. But a

catastrophe happened. One Sunday morning a shock was felt; this was

followed by a rumbling roar. There was talk of earthquakes. Soon,

however, we found out what had happened, the whole of the northern

portion of No. 10 Road had collapsed into the chasm on its western

side. Had this happened on a weekday, at least a hundred men would have

lost their lives; probably I would have shared their fate. This

occurrence put a stop to my work. Expensive tackle including staging,

stretched wire ropes, windlass, and iron pulley-travelers now became

necessary for getting out one's stuff. As my little capital was quite

inadequate to all this, I surrendered the claim to its owner.

Herbert Rhodes was a restless being, a stormy petrel ever on the wing

seeking adventures. I was told a few years since of an escapade which I

will here relate. While believing the story, to be literally true, I do

not guarantee its authenticity.

It is believed that in the caverns of what used to be Sekukuni's

country considerable stores of diamonds, taken back from the fields by

Baphedi laborers in the early days, lie concealed. Now, Sekukuni was a

warrior of parts, he defied for several years the Transvaal, when the

administration of President Burgers attempted to levy tribute on him in

the form of hut tax. It was his great ambition to obtain a cannon for

the defense of his mountain stronghold. Accordingly, towards the end of

the seventies, he offered a heavy price, no less than a pint of clear,

flawless diamonds, to any one who would supply such a weapon. Herbert

Rhodes heard of the offer, opened communications with the chief, and

agreed to provide a cannon on the terms specified.

Gun running the supply of firearms to savage natives is rightly looked

upon as the unpardonable sin by men whose opinions are worth regarding.

But this case fell not into the ordinary, category of gun-running. A

cannon, for purposes of offence or defense, would have been of no more

use to Sekukuni than a gramophone. However, the chief did not know

this. He possessed the diamonds, but they were of no use whatever to

him. He desired the artillery; this could not have been of any use to

him for the purpose he had in view. The gun was, as a matter of fact, a

weapon so utterly obsolete that it could have been of no use to any

one. Logically, therefore, the transaction proposed amounted to x minus

against x minus. But the diamonds would have been of great use to

Herbert Rhodes, while the cannon would have been as a symbol priceless

to the chief; he would have slept sounder the nights through in the

realization that he possessed an engine capable, at least, of making a

tremendous noise.

The gun, it appears, was conveyed to Lourenco Marques in a small French

barque, Herbert Rhodes accompanying it. At night it was lowered into a

boat, which was rowed up the Maputa River to a specified landing-place.

Sekukuni had sent an induna bearing the pint of diamonds and

accompanied by a number of carriers, with directions to keep to the

valley of the Olifant River as far as the Lebomba Range, and then to

skirt the eastern slope of that range to the Komati River. Here they

were to await a message telling of the arrival of the gun.

Herbert Rhodes was not alone a first-rate boxer, but was unduly fond of

giving practical illustration of his skill. On board the barque he

quarreled with another man and gave the latter a severe thrashing. This

man nursed revengeful feelings. Having found out about the forwarding

of the gun, he managed to slip ashore early on the following morning

and give information to the authorities. The Portuguese commander at

once made preparations to send a company of soldiers for the purpose of

apprehending the gun-runners. In the meantime a man at Lourenco Marques

who was in Herbert Rhodes's confidence dispatched a swift runner ahead

to warn Rhodes of his danger. This runner arrived some considerable

time before the soldiers, so Rhodes had ample time in which to make

preparations.

The way he dealt with the difficulty was simple and ought to have been

effective. He tied a rope to the gun and a piece of twine to the rope.

Then he flung rope and gun into the river, fastened the end of the

twine to a floating fragment of wood, lit a cigarette, and sat down to

await developments. In due time the Portuguese force arrived. The

officer in charge was accompanied by an interpreter. Rhodes and his

companions were at once arrested. The former protested hotly, and

inquired in indignant terms as to the reason for such an outrage. When

informed of the charge against him he affected the greatest

astonishment, and challenged the officer to institute a search. This

was done at once, and thoroughly; needless to say, nothing of an

incriminating nature was found.

The officer now changed his tone, becoming very apologetic. He probably

knew by experience that for a blunder such as this evidently, was, he,

rather than his superior, would have to bear the brunt. But Rhodes was

implacable; the world, he said, would ring with the outrage. As soon as

the British Government learned of the disgraceful manner in which one

of its subjects had been treated, a man-of-war would be sent round from

Simon's Town to knock the Portuguese shanties about the Portuguese

ears, &c. The officer, now thoroughly frightened, became more and more

abject. However, Rhodes determined to get full change out of him before

climbing from his high horse. But he delayed too long; he failed to

make use of the loophole of escape that Fortune showed him.

Rhodes forgot three things, namely, that the Maputa is a tidal river,

that several hours had elapsed since the gun had been heaved overboard,

and that the tide was falling. One of the soldiers, in strolling about,

noticed something unusual just beneath the surface of the water. To

this he called the attention of a noncommissioned officer. The latter

investigated further, and the gun was hauled out. Rhodes now tumbled

incontinently from his high horse and the officer at once mounted it.

The search party marched back in triumph to Lourenco Marques, escorting

Rhodes and his companions as prisoners. The companions were placed at

once on board their ship.

Herbert Rhodes, now in sorry case, was incarcerated in the fortress.

This, in the seventies, was a horrible place in which to be confined.

The cells were small, dark, and verminous; the flagged passages full of

man-traps in the form of unexpected steps. I do not know what part of

the building the prisoner was confined in, but if his cell were

anything like the one from which, in 1874, I helped to carry the dead

body of my poor friend Pat Foote, he was not to be envied. However, the

durance apparently did not last long. The captive probably made himself

disagreeable a thing he could do most effectively. He was, perhaps,

found to be an embarrassment. Possibly that potent solver of

difficulties, palm-oil, may have greased the bolts of his dungeon so

effectively that they slipped back some dark, convenient night. At all

events he got away after a comparatively short imprisonment. Nothing

has been recorded as to what became of the pint of diamonds.

Herbert Rhodes came to a terrible end. A few years after the event just

related, he was living in a hut on the shores of Lake Nyassa. One

night, accompanied by a friend, he returned from a journey. Desiring

refreshment he found none available except some Johanna rum in an

unopened keg. This liquor is extremely strong and highly inflammable.

Rhodes knocked in the bung; some of the spirit spurted out and became

ignited.

The keg burst and the contents wrapped the unhappy man in a sheet of

flame. After this had with difficulty been quenched, a messenger was

dispatched to Blantyre, some forty miles away, to call for medical aid.

I believe it was Dr. Jane Waterston, now of Cape Town, who came to the

sufferer's assistance. But he died in great agony shortly after her

arrival.

CHAPTER VI

Big gambling--Von Schlichmann--Norman Garstin--The painter of St.

Michael's Mount--Start for the gold fields--"I am going to be hanged"

Plentifulness of game--Snakes in an anthill--Nazareth--Game in the High

Veld--Narrow escape from frost-bite--A shooting match--Lydenburg--Painful

tramping--"Artful Joe"--Penalty for suicide--Pilgrim's Rest--Experiences of

"a new chum"--Tent-making--Explorations--The Great Plateau--Prospect of the

Low Country--Elands.

I was told the following tale on good authority. Three men held a claim

jointly in the "New Rush" mine. They worked it for about six months,

and found a considerable number of diamonds. The weather grew hot and

the camp unhealthy; many were dying of fever. Duststorms raged, and the

flies became almost intolerable. All three wanted to get away; they

longed for the coast and the cool sea-breezes. One of the partners

proposed that two of them should go away on a visit and the third stay

behind to keep the claim going, the question as to who should stay

being settled by lot. Another proposed, as an amendment, that they

should toss "odd man out" who was to own the claim; then each could

please himself. No sooner said than done. Three coins spun into the

air, and two third portions of a claim, worth even then about 2,000,

were lost and won within the space of ten seconds.

As might be imagined, gambling was very rife. I well remember one night

looking on, awe-struck at the magnitude of the stakes, at a game of

loo. The play took place at an eating-house called "The Gridiron," the

proprietor of which was an ex-cavalry man named Richardson. The

building was of the usual eating-house type; it had a wooden frame

covered with canvas. At right angles to a central passage were tables

with benches at each side, the tables being cut off from each other by

partitions.

At the game in question there were four players: Richardson (the

proprietor), H. B. Webb (a noted diamond dealer), his partner Joe

Posno, and the celebrated Ikey Sonnenberg. Some idea of the magnitude

of the stakes may be formed when it is stated that at one time 1,700

was in the pool.

A man I knew fairly well was Von Schlichmann. He had been secretary to

Count Arnim when that unfortunate nobleman was German Ambassador to

France. When Arnim fell, the possibilities of the diplomatic career,

for which his secretary had been intended, were destroyed. Von

Schlichmann was a man of extraordinary strength, and was remarkably

handsome in both face and figure. His curled yellow hair was thick,

long, and silky in texture. One of his favorite ways of showing his

strength was to get four men to grasp handfuls of his locks, each with

one hand, as firmly as they could. He would then sway his head round

with a jerk, and the four would fall, sprawling, in different

directions.

I think it was in 1875 that Von Schlichmann went north and entered the

military service of the Transvaal. It was, I know, when preparations

were being made to attack Sekukuni. I was one of those enrolled in the

expedition that escorted the arms and ammunition for that campaign from

Delagoa Bay to Pretoria in the latter part of 1874. So far as my memory

serves me, Von Schlichmann arrived early in the following year. But he

was killed in one of the attacks on Sekukuni's stronghold. When leading

his men a bullet pierced his lungs. He lay exposed on the flat rock on

which he fell, waving his sword and encouraging his men to advance to

the attack, until blood choked his utterance. One of my best friends, a

man named Macaulay, was shot on the same occasion. He received a bullet

in the brain from which he, unfortunately, did not die until after

several hours of great agony. Macaulay was noted at Pilgrim's Rest as

the first in the locality who used dynamite in mining operations.

But I have allowed myself to run ahead too fast, so must hark back to

Kimberley, as "New Rush" had now come to be called.

One of my most intimate friends was Norman Garstin, a man whom to know

was to love. Once he nearly frightened me to death. He had a habit of

sleeping with his eyes wide open, but of this I was quite unaware.

Returning home late one night I struck a match and saw him lying on his

back, his eyes fixed and glassy. I seized him by the shoulders and,

much to his disgust, dragged him into a sitting posture. Garstin was

an accomplished draughtsman. His caricatures, which were never

ill-natured, and his black and white "parables" brought him wide

popularity in the days when we foregathered.

The Cape Times was started by Garstin in conjunction with the late Mr.

F. Y. St. Leger. I forget exactly when this happened, but I think it

was in the late seventies. After he had severed his connection with the

Cape Times, Garstin went to Europe, where he studied serious art for

several years. I was his guest at Newlyn, Penzance, in 1899; at the

time of my visit he was patriarch of the well-known artist colony

there. Garstin's pictures, although they have never been "boomed," and

have consequently not reached public favor, are thought very highly of

by other artists. To record that they have been hung in the Royal

Academy is like saying of an author's books that they have been on sale

in a railway bookstall. Two very beautiful examples of his work which I

specially recall are "The Scarlet Letter" and "The Lost Piece of

Silver."

Garstin told me a very significant tale. He kept an art school at

Newlyn. One day an intelligent young Cornish miner came and asked to be

received as a pupil; he at once paid a quarter's fees in advance. Then

he informed Garstin that he wanted to learn to paint pictures of St.

Michael's Mount. Garstin, finding that his pupil was ignorant of the

very rudiments of painting, endeavored to explain that some preliminary

training was necessary; but the young man would not argue the point.

St. Michael's Mount, and nothing else, was to be the subject; all he

wanted Garstin to do was to show him how to begin, and afterwards give

him an occasional direction.

Canvas, easel, brushes, and paints were all purchased according to a

list which Garstin supplied him with. He wanted, he said, everything of

the best. A pupil is a pupil, especially when he pays in advance, and

when pictures are not as saleable as they should be, so Garstin did all

he could to further this particular pupil's desire. The latter was very

apt; after a comparatively short time he was able to turn out some

daubs, the meaning of which could be more or less recognized.

When he had outraged St. Michael's Mount from one side, Garstin's pupil

attacked it from another. St. Michael's Mount at early morning, at high

noon, at dewy eve, and at all intermediate hours; St. Michael's Mount

in spring, in summer, in autumn, and in winter; St. Michael's Mount

lapped by a calm sea, or smitten by spuming waves. He made uncanny

progress. Before the second quarter was at an end this remarkable pupil

had produced several presentments of the celebrated Cornish

excrescence, which were not much worse than average lodging-house

oleographs, and were quite as suggestive of their subject as is

Turner's celebrated masterpiece. When the quarter came to an end, the

pupil announced that he considered he had now learnt enough.

Accordingly he left.

Shortly afterwards Garstin was astonished to hear that his former pupil

had set up a studio on his own account at St. Ives, a few miles away.

It was quite true. Here he sat all day long, painting pictures of St.

Michael's Mount in assorted sizes. I forget how many pictures he

finished each week, but the output was large. This is the explanation;

Johannesburg at the time contained many Cornishmen; to the average

Cornishman St. Michael's Mount is what Mecca is to the Moslem.

Garstin's shrewd disciple had his daubs framed and sent to the Rand.

Here they were all absorbed, fetching prices which left an average

profit of 5 each. And all this time Garstin's own beautiful creations

were wanting purchasers.

In 1873 rich alluvial gold was reported to have been struck in the

Lydenburg district, which was then the extreme limit which civilization

had reached in the north-eastern Transvaal. I decided to go and try my

fortune at the scene of the discovery. While passing through Pretoria I

met a man in the street whose face I thought I knew. He advanced

towards me with outstretched hand. Yes, it was Cooper the man during

whose wedding festivities the big circus-tent had been blown down. He

greeted me with great effusion, a circumstance I thought remarkable, as

I had not known him well. The day was warm, so I suggested that we

should have a drink together. He agreed with alacrity, so we adjourned

to the nearest bar.

"Well, Cooper," said I, "how are you getting on here?"

At once his face fell.

"Very badly indeed," he replied, and heaved a sigh.

"Why, what is the matter?"

"Well, the fact is, I am going to be hanged."

I thought he was joking, but it was not so; he was actually under

sentence of death. He had gone on the spree and started painting

Pretoria red some months previously. When a constable attempted to

arrest him, he drew a revolver and shot the unfortunate officer

fatally. In due course he was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to be

hanged by the neck until dead.

"But, Cooper," I queried, "why don't they hang you?"

"Well," he replied, "they don't like hanging white men up here, and

just now President Burgers is laying out a rose-garden. I understand

that kind of thing, so I go down every day and attend to the work. I

was just taking a stroll when I met you."

"Look here, Cooper," I said with emphasis, "if I were you I would clear

out without delay. The State Attorney may change his mind; some new man

may take on the job a man with strict ideas. Clear out while you can."

"Oh, I don't think there's any danger," replied Cooper, but he looked

uneasy.

"Was it a white man or a black man that you shot?"

"It was a white man, right enough."

"Then clear out while there is still time," said I.

Some months afterwards I met a Pretoria man named Brodrick at Pilgrim's

Rest. I inquired about Cooper. What Brodrick told me proved the

soundness of my advice. The Executive Council had suddenly awakened to

a sense of its duty, and decided to allow the law to take its course.

Fortunately Brodrick and some others got wind of this, so they managed

to get the culprit out of gaol. Mounted on one horse and leading

another, Cooper rode for his life westward towards Bechuanaland,

pursued by the Transvaal police. However, he escaped. I have never

heard of him since.

Game was plentiful at certain places along the road. I remember a

locality called "Leeuw Dooms" where blesbuck, wildebeeste, and quagga

were in almost incredible abundance. As far as the eye could reach the

veld was dappled with herds of these and other animals. So far as I can

remember, this place was about three days' wagon journey beyond

Pretoria.

Before reaching Pretoria we outspanned near the winkel of a man named

Jacobi, a former resident of Cradock. This was within a few miles of

where Johannesburg stands today. I remember Jacobi telling me that a

nugget of gold had been found in the drift of a river close to his

house. Here I had an adventure.

I took my rifle and strolled down the riverbank after some reedbuck,

which I had been told were to be found there. I wounded a buck; it

hobbled away with difficulty. I ran after it, but the grass was long,

and I had a difficulty in keeping the animal in sight. In my course

stood an ant-hill about four feet high. Endeavoring to get within view

of the buck, I sprang to the top of the ant-hill, but it was hollow,

and the crust collapsed under me. I looked down and found that several

snakes were crawling and writhing about my feet. I had some difficulty

in getting out, for as soon as I got foothold on the edge it broke

under my weight. The weather was cold, and the snakes had taken refuge

in the cavity.

I reached the town of Nazareth (now called Middelburg ) early one

morning. The houses numbered, I should say, from thirty to forty, and

stood somewhat wide apart from each other. In making my way to a shop

which stood about in the middle of the township, and which had a very

high stoep, I noticed that the streets were full of game spoors. I

spoke of this to the storekeeper.

"Oh, yes," he replied, "the game comes in here every night. Look

there."

I glanced in the direction indicated. Just beyond the outskirts of the

town were herds of wildebeeste, blesbuck, and quagga grazing quietly

about, like so many herds of cattle. But they were not so tame as they

looked, as I found later in the day, when I went towards them with my

rifle.

In passing through the High Veld, as the country to the north-east of

Nazareth was called, I first saw the spoor of a lion. I left the wagon,

which had been obliged to make a very wide detour for the purpose of

avoiding swampy ground, and was making straight across country towards

a point close to which I knew the road passed. On my left was a very

large leegte, a shallow, nearly level valley. For miles of its course

this was filled with swamp, out of which tall reeds grew.

Game was very abundant. I shot several blesbuck and wildebeeste, I am

sorry to say, for the gratification of mere lust of slaughter, as I

could not possibly carry away the meat. In passing over a graveled

ridge I noticed a dried drop of blood. I looked more closely and found

the tracks of some large animal. This I followed, in the direction of

the reeds, until I reached some sandy ground. Then I saw that the track

was undoubtedly that of a lion. The animal had evidently killed during

the previous night and carried the meat to its lair among the reeds.

But this was a mere guess; I did not pursue my investigations.

Next day I left the wagon long before daylight, and started for another

tramp this time along a course I had mapped out the previous afternoon.

It was bitterly and unseasonably cold. There was no wind, but the

hoar-frost lay almost as thick as if a fairly heavy shower of snow had

fallen. I was wearing veldschoens, but had no socks. As I trampled

through the grass the frost spicules from the tussocks I brushed

against filled the spaces between the leather and my feet.

I began to suffer excruciating pain. I thought day would never break.

My feet felt as though they did not belong to me. Soon they ceased to

be painful, but the pain-area had traveled up my legs. Having heard of

frost-bite and its serious effects, I became much alarmed.

Day broke at length. There was so far no game in sight. I thought of

kindling a fire, but could find no fuel. Just ahead a low, narrow dyke

crossed my course. I crept to this on my hands and knees, and peered

through the stones. Yes, there stood a small herd of blesbuck; they

were not more than eighty yards away. With great difficulty, for the

light was still bad and I was shaking like an aspen, I got my bead on

the largest buck. I fired; the animal sprang into the air and rolled

over. I hobbled forward to where the creature lay. It was stone dead;

shot through the heart. I pulled the carcass up to a convenient stone,

cut it open with my hunting knife and thrust my feet into its interior.

During the ensuing half-hour I think I suffered more intense physical

agony than I have ever endured in the same period of time. My feet must

have been very nearly frost-bitten, and the process of circulation

being restored was exquisitely painful. I verily believe that my life

was saved through the accident of those blesbucks being behind the dyke

and close enough for me to be able to kill one. The sun was high in the

heavens before I was able to resume my journey.

One day I came across an encampment of Boer hunters. Tired of killing

game, they were indulging in the diversion of a shooting-match. I was

cordially welcomed, and invited to join in the competition. The farmers

had brought their families with them; some dozen or so wagons had been

outspanned together, and several tents had been pitched.

Girls, some of them very pretty, dispensed coffee in kommetjes to the

competitors. The competition was arranged on very peculiar lines. The

targets were circular, and could not have measured more than about five

inches in diameter. The range was a hundred paces. Each competitor lay

on a feather-bed, which was covered with a kaross, and rested his rifle

on a pile of pillows. The price of a lootje that is to say, the fee for

entry was sixpence, and each could take as many lootjes as he liked.

The number of shots fired in each case was five, and these were fired

in succession. The prizes were sheep, sacks of meal, and small casks of

vinegar.

In spite of the smallness of the target there were but few misses.

Shots were judged to a hair's-breadth, and the judging was perfectly

fair. Strangely enough I managed to win a sack of meal and a barrel of

vinegar. As these were of no use to me, I exchanged them for fifteen

shillings and a hundred Westley Richards cartridges. My shooting caused

me to find favor in the eyes of these farmers; I was cordially invited

to remain and hunt with them for as long as I liked. I might have done

worse than accept; the life they were leading was a lordly one.

However, I had to bid them a regretful farewell. Then I tramped on

after the wagon.

The people with whom I was traveling did not go beyond Lydenburg, so

from there I had to tramp to Pilgrim's Rest, my destination, a distance

of about forty miles. I tied my worldly possessions into a "swag" a

process in which I was skillfully assisted by an old miner, with whom I

casually foregathered. Then I set forth with three companions, likewise

casual acquaintances. We all belonged to that despised class known as

"new chums" that is, men who were without practical experience in the

art of goldmining.

We started early in the afternoon. Our pilgrimage was a painful one; my

swag was heavy, and the straps galled my unaccustomed shoulders. After

walking about fifteen miles we camped in a small grove of trees. Here

we shivered through an apparently interminable night around an

inadequate fire. None of us were experienced bushmen, and we had

neglected to gather sufficient fuel. The wind was cold, and I had not

then acquired that toughness of fiber and insensibility to extremes of

heat and cold which long wanderings and many hardships afterwards gave

me.

Two only of my companions are worth recalling. One was an ex-larrikin

from Melbourne, who went by the name of "Artful Joe"; his real name I

never learnt. Joe had been the victim of a horrible accident in the

Kimberley mine about a year previously. He had fallen from one of the

"roads" sixty feet sheer on to a sorting table at the bottom of the

claim. Both his legs had been broken in several places. I was not

present when the accident occurred, but I witnessed the tedious and

terrible process of hoisting the injured man out of the pit and

conveying him to the hospital. With the exception of a slight lameness,

and of being more or less bandy-legged, Joe had not suffered much

permanent injury.

He sang many comic songs to cheer us up during that night of dolor,

filling the intervals between the ditties with anathemas against his

South African luck and realistic stories of his Australian experiences.

He had lived, he told us, for several years by earning pennies in the

Melbourne streets. Outside the sculleries of the large hotels, or where

banquets had been held, barrels of 'feast fragments used to be set. In

these barrels the street-public were allowed to "dab" with a fork, at

the rate of a penny a time, for discarded fragments of food.

Occasionally a rich reward would fall to the enterprising "dabber."

Joe's most dazzling stroke of luck happened once when he dabbed out a

whole fowl (feaoul, he called it). This must have been rendered

possible through some extraordinary lapse of culinary carefulness.

The description was so appetizing that I am sure the wraith of that

long-digested bird hovered over our meager banquet.

The second pilgrim was a Jew named L.

He was extremely short of stature, but wore the biggest boots I have

ever seen; literally, they covered him to the waist. L, never having

previously roughed it, was the greatest sufferer; his misery was so

great that he wept bitterly, refusing to be comforted. He sickened us

through his utter want of grit. When, towards morning, he slept, I took

his boots and hid them behind a bush some distance away. His

lamentations on missing them were long and loud.

The third of my companions was a mere tramp, sodden with drink a man

utterly without significance, except as an example of what to avoid.

Some months afterwards, at Pilgrim's Rest, L attempted to commit

suicide by hanging himself. He was cut down before life was extinct,

and on recovery was prosecuted for felo-de-se. At the time Major

Macdonald, the Gold Commissioner, happened to be away, his place being

temporarily filled by Mr. Mansfield, the postmaster. The terms used by

the latter in sentencing L caused great amusement.

They were as follows:

"As you have been guilty of an attempt only, I will fine you 5, but if

you had succeeded I should have felt bound to pass a much more severe

sentence."

"Artful Joe" and I were the only two members of the party who were fit

to travel next day, so after leaving the others the largest share of

our joint stock of provisions (meal and tea), and restoring the boots

to their disconsolate owner, we went on. We abandoned the road and

traveled by a footpath across country in the compass direction of our

objective. It was in the middle of a calm, sunny afternoon that we

reached the eastern edge of the mountain plateau overlooking the Blyde

River Valley. The prospect was a magnificent one. North and south the

great mountain ranges rolled away, seemingly to infinity. Before us,

winding down through the range on the opposite side of the valley, lay

Pilgrim's Creek, the goal of our long endeavor.

Between two and three miles from where the creek flowed into the Blyde

River lay the little township. Among the farther sinuosities of the

valley were groups of tents. With the eye of imagination we could

almost detect the nuggets gleaming at the bottom of the stream. We had

not yet learnt the gold-diggers' variant of a well-known proverb:

"Nothing is gold that glitters."

We scrambled down the steep mountain-side, between patches of forest

and over reefs of quartz. The latter had a special interest for us; we

were now in the land of gold and who could tell where the clues of

Fortune were not to be picked up? That afternoon the world was full of

glorious possibilities.

We waded across the Blyde River drift and ascended the slope towards

the town, which nestled behind a stony rise. Soon, with light hearts

and lighter pockets (mine contained but seven shillings), we trudged up

the one and only street. Here and there stood a digger, or a

storekeeper, glancing with amused contempt at the raw "new chums." I

happened to be wearing a pair of new moleskin breeches that were

several sizes too wide for me. These were the occasion of a good deal

of derisive comment. One man sang out to a friend across the street

"Say, Jim, them looks like town-made legs and country made trousers,

eh?"

Joe's limp, also, was the subject of ribaldry. On the whole we must

have been a strange looking pair. Feeling rather small under the

scrutiny (not bethinking us that within a very few months we would be

putting on similar airs of superiority towards weary tramps arriving

under like conditions) we were glad when we had passed through the

township. We strolled up the winding valley, admiring the landscape and

wondering how we were going to set about earning a living. The scenery

was enchanting, but scenery by itself is not a satisfying diet.

On our course up the creek we passed numbers of parties at work. Owing

to the rugged nature of the Pilgrim's Valley, the pathway zigzagged a

great deal. Some acquaintances of mine were said to be working among

the terraces high up far beyond the Middle Camp and their tent was my

objective. Once we heard a cheery hail from the bed of the creek, and

saw a man waving a tin pannikin at us. This meant an invitation to tea,

which we gladly accepted. The claim was worked by a couple of

Australians; they were on a fair lead, so they told us. They gave us a

supply of tobacco, and told us to call round again as soon as we "got

stony," and they would see what they could do for us. This evidence of

sympathy gave me, at least, a feeling of confidence which I badly

needed.

We reached the Middle Camp; as we passed Tom Craddock's bar a stalwart,

bearded, and more or less inebriated digger came out with vociferous

welcome and insisted on our going in and drinking at his expense. In

the bar was a man I knew; seeing him had the effect of making me feel

more or less at home. We sat and rested for a few moments; then I got

hold of the idea that we were expected to stand return treat to our

host and his friends. In this I was, as it happened, quite mistaken.

Joe had no money whatever, so I had to pay. My capital was now reduced

to two shillings.

The man I met in the bar, whom I knew, told me that the friends I was

seeking had, a few days previously, moved down creek. We had passed

their camp without knowing it, a couple of miles back. Joe and I were

now dog-tired, so decided to go back to a warm nook we had noticed in a

kloof on the way up, and spend the night there. We reached this spot

just as night was falling, and "dossed" down. Fuel was plentiful, so we

made a lordly fire. We worked up our remaining meal into dampers and

cooked them in the ashes. We found there was enough tea left for two

brews; one of these we prepared at once. Then we filled our pipes with

some of the kind Australians' seasonable gift, and sat puffing in a

condition of mind that approached contentment.

It had been tacitly assumed that Joe and I were to be mates, although

nothing definite had been said on the subject. We conversed for a while

after supper; then silence fell upon us. I spoke several times to Joe,

but he did not answer. Just as I was wrapping myself in my blanket for

the night, Joe turned abruptly to me and said:

"Look here, I ain't your sort; you'll get a better mate. We'll shake

hands in the morning and say goodbye."

When I awoke in the grey dawn Joe had already risen, lit the fire,

packed his swag, and brewed our last pinch of tea in the billy.

We drank to each other's good fortune in silence. Then, after a

hand-press, Joe humped his swag and strode away, leaving me with

moistened eyes. I felt I had lost my only friend. I have foregathered

with much worse men than "Artful Joe."

Early that day I found my friends, some men I had known at Kimberley.

They agreed to allow me to work with them for my keep, my services then

not being worth more. I knew nothing whatever about gold-mining, and,

not having performed any manual labor for some time, my hands were

soft. Every new chum had to undergo the purgatorial experience of

having his palms blistered and re-blistered until continued contact

with the handles of pick and shovel made them horny. However, I soon

matriculated at the sluice-box, and was able to do a fair day's work.

Then, as my friends could not afford to pay wages they were, for the

time, off the "lead," I sought another employer. Work was easily found.

The uniform rate of wages for Europeans was an ounce of gold per week,

the value thereof being about 3 12s. 6d.

With my first earnings I bought some double width unbleached calico and

a palm and needle. By means of these I made myself a small tent. The

cost of the material was about seventeen shillings, and the work was

easily finished in the course of four or five evenings. I had not been

living in this tent for more than ten days when a man, who was about to

start on a prospecting trip, bought it over my head for 1pound 15s. I

must have made, and sold at a profit, quite a dozen tents during my

stay at Pilgrim's Rest. In fact I soon got to be known as "that chap

who always has a tent to sell." When a purchaser came along I would

deliver the tent at once, and move my few belongings to the dwelling of

some friend or another who happened to have room to spare.

I lived very sparingly indeed; two shillings per diem paid for my food

and tobacco. I hoarded every penny like a miser. I longed to prospect,

to explore; but before attempting this it was necessary to have a few

pounds in hand. On Sundays it was my habit to walk to the top of the

"Divide," the backbone of the mountain range. On one side of it lay

Pilgrim's Rest, on the other "Mac Mac," another mining camp so called

on account of most of the diggers there in the first instance having

been Scotsmen. From this lofty coign I could occasionally get far and

faint glimpses of the mysterious "Low Country," which was just visible

(in clear weather) over the intervening precipice-edged plateau which

lay beyond the Mac Mac and Waterfall Creeks.

Sixty miles away to the north-east, but clearly visible in the rarefied

mountain air, towered the mighty gates through which the Olifant River

roared down to meet the Letaba. On their left the great ranges rolled

away to the infinite north-west. What direction first to explore in?

That was a difficult question to decide, seeing that the field for

adventure was equally enticing in every direction.

Beyond the deep valley in which Mac Mac nestled arose gradually a

great, shelving tract. In rough outline it resembled a plateau, but the

explorer found it to be much broken up and intersected by ravines, some

of which were impassable for miles of their length. This plateau was

very extensive; in fact, it stretched indefinitely to the north-east,

the only break in that direction being the distant gates of the

Oliphant. But on the south-east it ended in an enormous precipice,

occasionally several thousand feet in sheer height.

The view from the edge of this precipice was marvelous. From the lower

margin of the mighty wall the broken hills, covered with virgin forest,

fell away with lessening steepness to the plains. These, also, were

covered with trees; here, however, the woodland had a different

character, for there was little or no undergrowth. The plains stretched

away, to an immense distance. It was in this tract, far below the gazer

on the cliff-edge, that romance dwelt in the tents of enchantment. Over

it roamed the buffalo, the koodoo, and the giraffe. In the dark hour

just before dawn the dew-laden boughs shrouding it trembled to the

thunder-tones of the lion as he roared over his kill. Above all, its

thickets of mystery had hardly been trodden by the foot of civilized

man.

Even on the plateau itself large game was occasionally to be found.

Some lion, more enterprising than his fellows, would lead his mate and

her brood up one of the dizzy clefts in the precipice to prey on the

cattle which, in seasons of drought, the Lydenburg farmers occasionally

sent here for the sake of the rich pasturage.

One morning, when brewing a billy of tea in a small rocky basin, I

heard the sound of trampling. Looking round I saw nine elands

descending the side of the depression and making straight for me. They

came to within about eighty yards and then stood. The leader was an

immense bull by far the largest I have ever seen. All looked as sleek

and fat as stall-fed cattle. My only weapon was an old Colt revolver.

How I cursed my bad luck in not having a rifle. After gazing at me for

a few seconds the elands galloped on, changing their course slightly to

the right. They passed within less than fifty yards of my fire.

CHAPTER VII

Extended rambles--View from the mountain top--An unknown land--The deadly

fever--Gray's fate--Lack of nursing--Temperature rises after death

Pilgrim's Rest in early days--The prison--The stocks--No color line--John

Cameron in trouble--The creek "lead"--Plenty of gold--Wild peaches

Massacres of natives in old days--Kameel--His expressions--Life on the

creek--Major Macdonald--The parson--Boulders--Bad accidents--A quaint

signboard--"Reefing Charlie".

As the days lengthened out I began to extend the scope of my weekly

rambles. Instead of starting on Sunday I would do so on Saturday

afternoon, as soon as work in the claim had ceased. Four hours stiff

walking would take me over the Divide, and almost across the plateau

beyond the Mac Mac River. At some suitable spot I would camp for the

night. Next morning's dawn would find me on my way to the edge of the

beetling cliff. However, sunrise was rarely a striking spectacle from

there, for the reason that usually and more especially in the morning

the Low Country was shrouded in haze. It was later, when the sun had

climbed high and the haze had somewhat dissipated, that the prospect

grew most enthralling. But haze, although its density varied

considerably from time to time, was rarely absent from the regions

lying eastward.

This almost continuous barrier to very distant vision used to annoy me

considerably, for my eyes strove greedily to gather up details of the

most remote tracts within their range. Once, on an unusually clear day,

I caught sight of the Lebomba about eighty miles away. The very name of

this then mysterious region used to thrill me with romance. How I

longed to explore its heights which, after all, turned out not to be

so very high and to plunge into its seaward hollows. How I girded at

the vapor that almost continually shrouded it. But I am now inclined

to believe that the glamour which made the prospect seen from the

cliff-edge so rich, was largely due to the diaphanous impediment to

complete vision. This, by hiding or allowing only a bare hint of the

details, gave full play to the imagination.

It must be borne in mind that in the early seventies the vast stretch

of country below the mountain range was practically an unknown land. No

map of it existed; its geography was but vaguely rumored of. We knew

that great rivers the Crocodile and the Komati, the Olifant, the

Letaba, and the lordly Limpopo, in whose depths Leviathan and Behemoth

wallowed flowed through its enchanted pastures, and that wild game of

infinite variety and plentiful beyond the desire of the keenest hunter

nightly slaked their thirst at these mysterious streams.

And yet for more than half of the year that dream-like and translucent

haze which spread like a pearl tinted veil over the romance-filled

woodland tract, was a veritable shadow of death. In the earlier days

men bent on sport, on prospecting or on adventure, pure and simple,

climbed light-heartedly down the steep mountain stairs at all times and

seasons little reckoning that it would have saved them much needless

misery if they had, instead, leaped headlong from the towering cliffs.

For from November to May, fever stalked abroad over the plains and

among the foothills, seeking human prey, and hardly any who ventured

during these months into the dominion of the fever king escaped his

blighting grip. The few who managed to save their lives were doomed to

months or even years of misery.

This could only be learnt by bitter experience.

In the autumn of 1873, five and thirty men descended to the Low

Country; of these I think twenty seven died. During the following year

we took warning, and none, with the exception of the Alexandre party,

attempted exploration before June. Consequently there were not, so far

as I remember, any fatalities; from June to October the Low Country was

healthy enough. But the memory of other people's experience fades

quickly; in 1875 some of us again undertook the trip too early. Six

started, one of these happened to be my "mate," who did not go down as

far as the others, and so escaped. The others were Thomas Shires, Meek,

Schwiegardt, McKinnon, and myself. I started on the 5th of April, at

least two months too early, the others about the same time. Of the

five, the three first mentioned died where they took the infection.

McKinnon and I managed to get back; we reached Mac Mac on the same day,

as it happened, traveling by different paths. Poor McKinnon, who was of

robust, powerful physique, died about a month afterwards. I, whose

build was extremely light, had a comparatively mild attack, but I felt

its effect for years. Of the men who recovered, the great majority were

of the lean kind. It was, in fact, proverbial that the less flesh one

had on one's bones, the better were the chances of recovery.

One extremely sad case was that of a man named Gray, whom I knew well.

He went down with fever at the poisonous Mattol Marsh, about thirty

miles from Delagoa Bay, in 1873. His mate went on to Lourenco Marques

to get supplies and hire bearers, leaving the sick man alone in a small

tent, with a limited supply of food and water. The mate got drunk and

remained so whilst the money he had with him lasted, a period of about

ten days. Then first he bethought him of Gray. Assistance was sent, but

it arrived too late; Gray was dead of thirst and starvation. I found

his grave the following year. Some pitiful Christian had made a rough

cross by tying two boughs together, and had stuck it into the sand at

the head. What made Gray's case sadder, if possible, was the

circumstance that letters were even then awaiting him at Lourenco

Marques with the news that he had inherited a fortune.

There can be no doubt that the heavy mortality among those who returned

to camp ill with fever was due to the fact that no medical man was

available that is, in the early days and that we knew nothing whatever

of the principles of nursing. One instance I recall illustrates this

very forcibly. A man had been ill with fever for upwards of two months.

The case was a bad one, but at length the patient appeared to rally.

One night he sat up in bed and announced that he had completely

recovered and was extremely hungry. On being asked what he would like

to eat he begged for bread and sardines. These were immediately

provided, the bread being coarse and brown. He ate with avidity, and

every one present felt the greatest satisfaction. Within a few hours he

was dead.

One weird circumstance connected with these fatalities was this; in

some instances the temperature of the bodies would rise after death and

continue to rise for several hours. This, I have been told, was due to

the fever ferment in the blood and tissues developing unchecked, and

its products setting up strong chemical action. It was hard, in these

instances, to believe that death had actually taken place, so attempts

at resuscitation used to be resorted to. I was afterwards told by a

medical man from Barberton that a similar phenomenon was noticed there

in fever cases the temperature sometimes rising after death to 110

degrees Fahrenheit.

Pilgrim's Rest, during the first few years after gold had been

discovered there, was an interesting and delightful place. Those whose

experience of mining camps is limited to ones in which the syndicate or

the company holds sway, can form no idea of the life of a community

where the individual digger is dominant. I am prepared to maintain that

life was healthier, saner, and on the whole more generally satisfactory

at Pilgrim's Rest in the early seventies than it is in any South

African community today. There was, of course, the inevitable

percentage of loafers, idlers, and scoundrels, but these were kept in

their proper place. Public opinion was a very effective force; in

matters affecting the general welfare of the community, opinion quickly

translated itself into action when the occasion demanded it. Thus the

blackguards knew perfectly well that if official justice occasionally

halted, its unofficial equivalent was apt to be short, sharp, and

decisive in its operation. The prison was a bell-tent containing two

sets of stocks. Under ordinary circumstances a prisoner was

accommodated by having both his legs secured. However, occasionally,

when an unusually large number of culprits were run in, they had to be

content with only one wooden anklet apiece. No color line was drawn,

except, to a certain extent, in the matter of the application of the

"cat." Natives and colored men were flogged for whatever offence they

happened to be found guilty of. Europeans were fined, with the

alternative of imprisonment, except in the case of a serious offence

such as tent-robbing, for instance. For such a crime, an almost

unpardonable one in a scattered r mining camp, where tents had very

often to be left unprotected the white man got his five and twenty as a

matter of course. I only knew of one case of tent-robbing by a native.

This was in the early days. The culprit was shot on the spot and thrown

down a disused shaft. No questions on the subject were asked.

I will illustrate what I mean by saying that no color line was drawn. I

once had a mate, John Cameron, a Highlander from Skye. John usually

became inebriated on Saturday night, but would turn up very early on

Sunday morning. One such morning he did not appear. While I was at

breakfast a passing digger told me that my mate was in gaol for

assaulting a policeman.

I started off to see what could be done. The gaol was about four miles

from where I lived. I arrived there in due course. There was no one to

prevent my entering, for the prisoners were secured so well in the

heavy, iron-bound stocks that escape was an impossibility. I found poor

John secured by one foot and lying on the ground between two similarly

secured Kaffirs. He was in a horrid condition, as, being a powerful

man, it had been found necessary to stun him with a club before his

arrest could be effected.

It was a fortunate circumstance that I knew Major Macdonald, the Gold

Commissioner, fairly well, and that he was owing to a successful game

of poker the previous night in an unusually good temper. He penciled an

order for John's release. After some difficulty I found the gaoler and

got him although with a bad grace, for John had acted in a really

outrageous manner to obey the order.

All nationalities were represented among the diggers, but English South

Africans predominated. Soon, however, an increasing population of

Australian, New Zealand, and Californian miners poured in. The "field"

was a rich one. The "lead," which zigzagged perplexingly down between

the valley terraces, carried plenty of gold. It was, of course, uneven,

some parts of it being much richer than others but I do not think that

there was any portion of the lead which it did not pay to work. But the

lead and the bed of the creek in which the water actually ran zigzagged

quite independently of each other. That is to say, at the time when the

gold was carried down and distributed by water along the bottom of the

valley countless ages ago, the stream then flowing although it followed

the same general direction took in detail a course quite different from

the one it followed when the busy gold seekers defaced its banks in the

days I write of.

Much more gold was found than is generally supposed. I remember four

very quiet, reticent men who worked out three and a half rather shallow

claims just in front of what was known as the Middle Camp. They never

spoke of what they were finding and it would have been a most serious

breach of local etiquette to make any inquiry upon such a subject but

upon leaving they authorized the manager of the bank to make public the

fact that they had divided, on dissolution of the partnership, gold to

the value of 35,000. Many others also did well, but none to the same

extent as the partnership referred to. Some very large nuggets were

found. I personally handled one which weighed 10 lb. It was unearthed

by the late John Barrington, afterwards of Knysna.

The wild peaches which grew so plentifully in the vicinity of the Blyde

River Valley were a godsend to indigent "Pilgrims." How the trees

originated is a mystery. But there they were, on the "flats" of

Pilgrim's Creek, along the Blyde River terraces and in many of the

surrounding Valleys, groves of trees bearing luscious peaches of the

yellow clingstone variety. Although the trees were ungrafted, unpruned,

and, in fact, had not been interfered with by meddling man since the

germination of the stones that gave them auspicious birth, the size and

flavor of the fruit were ail that could be desired.

One gold-bearing creek was called "Peach Tree," on account of the

number of trees there growing. Near the upper end of the worked portion

of Pilgrim's Creek was a dense orchard that bore splendidly. But, alas!

they grew over "pay dirt," and in consequence were ruthlessly uprooted.

I am positive that the occurrence of these trees was quite

adventitious; they did not appear to have been planted with any regard

to order, nor as a rule were they found in localities suitable for

homesteads.

I have often speculated as to the origin of these peach-trees. Did some

thoughtful old voortrekker carry peach stones in his pocket, and, as

Admiral Rodney was wont to do with acorns, plant them here and there

for the benefit of posterity? Or did some small boy voortrekker,

munching, from the pocket of his blesbuck-skin jacket, dried fruit sent

up by some kind tante from the far south, carelessly throw aside a

stone which had been accidentally included, and was that the ancestor

of those trees which used to afford us so many delightful feasts?

About half a century before the days I write of, the then thickly

populated region surrounding these goldfields was turned into a

shambles and a solitude by, the horde of the terrible Ma 'Ntatisi,

chieftainess of the Bathlokua. This tribe was driven from its territory

at and around the sources of the Vaal River by the Amahlubi, at the

beginning of the upheaval caused by Tshaka, the Zulu king. On many a

level mountain terrace can still be seen the circular stone walls

indicating where populous villages once stood. Many clans, some large

and some small, had inhabited the fertile valleys of the Drakensberg

between what is now Wakkerstroom and the Olifant River. They lived in

comparative peace with one another. Occasional tribal fights took

place, but the victors never attempted to ruin the vanquished or to

take their territory.

Ma 'Ntatisi's horde literally obliterated these communities. Probably

the number of people who escaped the slaughter did not amount to five

per cent of the whole.

Old "Kameel" was one of the survivors. He was a native who, with his

family and a few goats, lived at a kraal on a ledge to the right of the

creek, about half a mile above the Lower Camp.

Kameel showed me the cave, overlooking the Blyde River Valley, in which

he and his mother had hidden themselves while spear and firebrand were

erasing his tribe from the face of the surrounding country. This cave

could only be entered by climbing up the trunk of a white ironwood-tree

and stepping on to a ledge from one of its branches. Other fugitives,

Kameel told me, sought the hiding-place during the night, but his

mother, fearing that their tracks would be followed, escaped with her

children to another refuge during the darkness. It was fortunate that

they did this, for the spoilers found the tracks leading to the cavern

and massacred every soul it contained. Probably today it still conceals

the gruesome pile of bones principally of women and children which I

saw in it in 1874.

Kameel was a character in his way. He had spent his life a law unto

himself and his family on the little ledge where the kraal he inhabited

stood. Being, in spite of his years, a strong active man and a skilled

hunter, Kameel was in great demand among those who, like myself,

endeavored to combine sport with prospecting on their trips. He

accompanied me on several of the longer expeditions which I undertook.

Through listening to the conversation of his employers, whose language

was apt to be "painful and frequent and free" on slight provocation,

Kameel had picked up some stock expressions which were very amusing. I

cannot, unfortunately, bowdlerize the best of these without spoiling

them, so I will endeavor to give a few examples of the less forceful.

If, for instance, Kameel wanted to indicate size, importance, force, or

greatness as an attribute of anything whatever from a flash of

lightning to a hippopotamus or an attack of fever he would say

"Helovabigwaan," using that term as an adjective. To express

disapproval or disgust, he would exclaim "Toodamaach," and shake his

head emphatically. The first time I heard the latter expression was

when, after a long, painful, and really clever stalk against a heavy

wind, I missed a splendid koodoo bull at a distance of about ten yards.

The miss was due to a bad cartridge fired from an unspeakable rifle,

but Kameel held it to be my fault and despised me accordingly.

It was a quaint little cosmos, this community of gold seekers in one

form or another whose tents made white the broken slopes of the winding

Pilgrim's Valley. We were exceedingly unconventional in most respects,

but the essential decencies of life were observed among us as well as

they were in any other community of which I have been a member. As time

went on many of the diggers brought their families to the creek. I can

remember several pretty girls whose dwellings were so many shrines for

respectful worship. A disrespectful word towards a woman would have

entailed serious consequences to the user. One lady, a Miss Russell,

worked a claim very successfully. She eventually married the owner of

the claim adjoining hers, a Mr. Cameron. He, if memory does not play me

false, represented Pilgrim's Rest in the Transvaal Volksraad. There

were no franchise troubles in those days.

As memory dwells on this period, the people with whom I foregathered

become very real and very human. I suppose that, in the natural order

of things, most of my fellow-pilgrims have reached the end of their

pilgrimage. Those mighty limbs and strong thews which held crowbar and

pick to be mere playthings, are dust; those feet which scaled, untired,

the highest and steepest ranges are at rest for ever. Yet my

recollection of these people is as clear as though it were yesterday,

and not five and thirty years ago when I saw them last.

The head of the community was the Gold Commissioner, Major Macdonald.

He was at once fountain of justice, dispenser of such patronage as

existed, and collector of taxes. "Mac" was an American, and had fought

in the War of Secession on the Confederate side. He was not an ideal

administrator, but his hands were clean, and he would always do one a

good turn if it lay in his power. A tall, thin man with a stooping

figure, a goatee beard and iron-grey ringlets showing under the brim of

his slouch hat, Major Macdonald's appearance exactly suggested the

conventional Yankee of the period of Sam Slick. He played a good game

of poker, and was never, so far as I know, seen without a cigar in his

mouth. I believe he died a few years since at Uitenhage, where he held

the railway cartage contract.

There were several ministers of religion on the creek, but it is

nevertheless to be feared that we were a rather irreligious lot. All

old Pilgrims will remember the Rev. G B, whose church stood in the

lower left-hand corner of the Market Square. Mr. B belonged to the

Church of England, and was, for those comparatively unenlightened days,

an advanced ritualist. He furnished his church with those symbols which

used to fill all good Protestants with horror, but to which they have

recently become more or less accustomed. In the matter of vestments and

altar observances he flew absolutely in the face of the Court of

Arches.

Mr. B was a gentleman and a good fellow, but was sadly weak in the

matter of drink. This weakness was a source of general amusement, in

fact, it rather tended to increase the parson's popularity with the

diggers. Whenever he went up the creek on pastoral visitation bent,

every one would be on the qui uive, and as he returned men would lie in

wait for him with proffers of alcoholic refreshment. By the time he

reached home Mr. B would be more or less intoxicated, and several of

the perpetrators of this sorry conspiracy would assist him to bed.

However, I must try and avoid the tendency to set down a mere catalogue

of abnormal human specimens; I had rather ramble with the reader

through the now shadowy thickets of a vivid and virile past, following

a payable memory "lead," and examining such nuggets of interesting

experience as we may pick up on the way. For the period I write of has

passed, leaving scarcely a recognizable sign. The individual digger,

the hardy, hearty, independent man who took toll of the riches of the

earth by the might of his own arm and for his own proper benefit

without intermediary has gone for ever, and the soulless corporation,

the boomster, and the politician have taken his place. I, for one,

think that South Africa is poorer for the change.

Pilgrim's Creek was not what is known as "a poor man's diggings." Here

and there, especially on the terraces or beds of wash lying above the

water flow, lay a few claims which were comparatively easy to work. But

most of the alluvium in and about the bed of the creek ran deep, often

from ten to twenty feet. The most serious difficulties were presented

by the boulders, which were thickly distributed through the wash. It

would, indeed, be more correct to say that the wash was sparsely

distributed between the boulders.

Any stone which could not be lifted out by two men without tackle came

within the definition of a boulder. Thirty, or even forty, tons was no

very unusual weight for these blocks of smooth, water worn quartzite.

Every one, no matter how large, had to be shifted, the reason being

that whatever gold there was lay on the bedrock, and thus beneath all

the wash. The bedrock was granite, but was so decomposed and friable

that one could dig it out like so much cheese.

One way of getting rid of a mammoth boulder was by excavating a pit in

the bedrock, sending the stuff dug out away through the sluice-box, and

then rolling the monster into the excavation. But this was always

dangerous work; the pit had to be sunk close to the boulder one wanted

to bury, and the latter was apt to break down the soft edge and roll

in, smashing the workers into jelly. Some terrible accidents of this

kind took place.

The lack of a surgeon occasioned the loss of many a good life and limb,

for accidents were frequent. There was an unqualified practitioner in

the Lower Camp. His signboard, mounted on a pole outside his tent, bore

the legend: "Surgeon, Barber, and Tentmaker."

Despite his quaint advertisement, which carried a suggestion of the

Middle Ages, A was no quack. He was, I think, a graduate of Trinity

College, Dublin, and had undergone a certain amount of medical

training. He saved many a life, perhaps mine included, for he pulled me

through my bout of fever. But several of his serious operations went

wrong. This may have been due to lack of proper appliances, and to our

rough but by no means ready methods of nursing. I remember the case of

a friend of mine whose leg got horribly crushed at Waterfall Creek and

had to be amputated. Mortification set in and he died.

One of my mates was the celebrated Charlie Durnan. "Reefing Charlie"

was the name he was usually known by. He was a most active and

occasionally a successful prospector. It was he, I fancy, who years

afterwards discovered the Pigg's Peak Mine in Swaziland. Charlie's

weakness was drink. He and I ate the mealie-meal porridge of poverty

among the Blyde River terraces for a couple of months. During this time

we never earned enough to pay for the salt which seasoned our insipid

repasts.

CHAPTER VIII

Work on "the Reef"--Shaft-sinking in a swamp--Wolff and McGrath--A case of

snake-bite--Tunneling--Humping green timber--John Mulcahy--His Gargantuan

breakfast--His peculiar habits--His end--The rush to "the Reef"

Cunningham's lead--My bad luck--Peter and his appetite--"Mr. William

Bogis" Fabayne, the cave-dweller--A bellicose bridegroom--Knox and his

revolver practice--A senseless toast and its sequel--A terrible accident

Alick Dempster and the Police News.

In 1874 a certain corporation, I think it was called "The Gold Fields

Exploration Company," had an office at Pilgrim's Rest. Edward Simpson,

formerly of Port Elizabeth, was the manager. Simpson died at Pretoria

about fifteen years ago. He was a good friend to me, but was,

unwittingly, the occasion of my failing to make a very rich "strike."

The company was carrying on prospecting operations in the vicinity of a

high saddle on one of the subsidiary ranges north of the Mac Mac

Divide. I was engaged at the usual remuneration of an ounce of gold per

week, and instructed to join two men, Wolff and McGrath, who were

already on the spot.

The scene of our work was called "The Reef." [Years afterwards known as

the Jubilee Mine.] No reef had been discovered there, but it was

believed that one existed. The saddle was steep and narrow, especially

on the northern side, where the rocky gully that scored its flank fell

into a more or less swampy basin. Our first work was the sinking of a

shaft in this swamp. Several nuggets had been found in the interstices

of the bedrock in the gully, so it was believed that the basin

contained a rich deposit.

One nugget which I found was the most beautiful thing of the kind I

have ever seen. It was shaped like a curved ostrich feather, and was as

bright as though it had just been turned out of a jeweler's shop.

Simpson had this nugget mounted as a brooch for the lady to whom he was

engaged to be married.

The sinking of the shaft was both difficult and dangerous. We struck

water at about six feet, and then had to make frames from green timber

cut in the vicinity and sink them, backed by slabs, as we took the

shaft down. The water flow was very strong, so we had to bale

continuously, night and day, for we dared not let it rise. We worked in

four-hour shifts, with relays of native laborers. After sinking sixty

feet, and nearly losing our lives in trying to save the shaft from

buckling, the water drove us out and the work had to be abandoned. I

still believe that there is gold, and plenty of it, at the bottom of

that swamp.

Wolff was a Dane of gigantic thews. He had been a sailor. McGrath was

an Australian gold-digger. One night the latter stepped barefoot out of

the tent and was bitten on the instep by a snake. He collapsed almost

immediately. We sent a runner down to the Lower Camp, which was nearly

six miles away, for assistance. There was no qualified medical

practitioner to be had; however, an amateur came up and treated the

patient with strychnine. We had, in the meantime, scarified the injured

part and applied ligatures above it. McGrath escaped with his life, but

the greater portion of his instep rotted away, and he became a physical

wreck. For a tune he completely lost the use of the muscles of his

eyelids; for months he had to use his hands when he wanted to open or

shut his eyes.

After abandoning the shaft, Wolff and I were instructed to drive a

tunnel into the hillside on the southern fall of the saddle. We took

this work under contract, at so much per foot. The driving involved the

use of props and slabs; these had to be cut and trimmed in a forest

situated more than a mile away, beyond a deep valley on the northern

face.

South African timber is notoriously close-grained and heavy;

consequently the humping of those green balks through the valley and

over the saddle to the tunnel was almost the heaviest and most painful

work I have ever perspired under. Felling the trees and dressing the

timber was child's play compared to it.

One day while engaged in felling I had an adventure with a mamba. Wolff

and I were working in a steep sided gully which contained small,

isolated patches of timber; he was felling a tree about fifty yards

above me. It crashed down, its crown striking a patch of scrub. Out of

this a large mamba glided and came down the gully, straight for me. I

could not climb out, so I made myself as small as possible against the

gully-side. The snake passed within a few feet of me, but made no

attempt to attack.

Snakes and leopards were very plentiful about our camp. A large python

dwelt in a krantz within less than a hundred yards of our tent. The

creature was often seen, but it always escaped when we ran over with

our guns on receiving a report that it was sunning itself. The trees

were covered with the claw marks of leopards.

Before very long a few diggers came and prospected in the vicinity of

the saddle for surface gold. Among them was one of the strangest

characters I have ever met. His name was John Mulcahy. Originally from

my own county, Tipperary, he had gone to California in the early days

of the "placer" mines. He and Bret Harte had been mates. Mulcahy had

prospected far and wide among the Rocky Mountains, and had even crossed

the Yukon River on one of his trips.

Solitary in his habits and possessed of a most violent temper, Mulcahy

was usually disliked by those with whom he came in contact. But he

attracted me very strongly. Aged, I should say, about forty five

yellow-bearded, exceedingly handsome, strong, and tall there was,

nevertheless, a suggestion of something sinister about him. To me he

unbent considerably when we were alone.

Once in a burst of confidence Mulcahy told me that he had left

California to escape the attentions of a certain widow, the

proprietress of a saloon, who had fallen in love with him. He related

how she had pursued him to a remote camp, burst into his tent one

morning and, before he could resist, thrown her arms around his neck,

and given him a kiss "you might have wathered a mule at."

Mulcahy and I first met at the Rotunda Creek Rush, and when that abode

of "wild cat" collapsed, we arranged to take a prospecting trip towards

the Olifant River. We made a start, but after a week were driven back

by some of the worst weather I have ever experienced. The climax came

when we were caught one afternoon on a high mountain plateau by a

succession of violent hailstorms. We crept under the lee of a rock for

shelter, but our fire was smashed out over and over again by hurtling

masses of ice, so we shivered in darkness through what seemed to be an

interminable night.

As the weather remained unsettled, we decided to return to camp and

there refit. Besides, we badly needed recuperation after the more than

ordinary hardships we had undergone. We arrived at the Lower Camp one

morning at about nine o'clock, more than half-starved. I shall never

forget my wolfish sensations as we flung down our swags at Stopforth

and Bowman's eating-house and called for breakfast. I then enjoyed the

heartiest meal of my life, after which I sat back pulling at my pipe

and noting with astonishment the amount of food which Mulcahy consumed.

I thought he would never stop; plateful followed plateful in an

apparently endless endeavor to sate the insatiable. However, all things

must come to an end; so, eventually, did Mulcahy's Gargantuan meal. As

he paid the prescribed fee of two shillings, I thought Stopforth looked

pensive.

After resting for some ten days, and the weather having in the meantime

cleared, we made another start. We had decided to commence our journey

after a good meal, so struck our tent early one morning at the Upper

Creek, and tramped down to the Lower Camp, once more to bestow the

doubtful favor of our custom upon Stopforth and Bowman.

We put down our swags at the door and entered. It was barely eight

o'clock, so no other customers had arrived. The eating-house was a

large marquee tent, with rough tables and benches on either side of a

passage down the middle. At the end of this passage a square piece had

been cut out of the canvas, and it was through the resulting aperture

that plates were passed to and from the kitchen. Bowman it was who

presided over the cooking while Stopforth did the waiting.

We took our seats at one of the tables and called for breakfast.

Stopforth stood for a few seconds and regarded Mulcahy with a somber

eye. Then he strolled slowly down the passage and called through the

aperture:

"Bill."

"Hullo?"

"Breakfast for ten; here's this son of a back."

My partner was enormously pleased at this compliment to his prowess;

for months afterwards he used to chuckle at the remembrance of it.

After Mulcahy moved up to "The Reef" he kept more than ever to himself,

discouraging advances even from me. This, we afterwards found, was due

to his having struck rich gold from the very first, and to his desire

to keep the circumstance from being known. He worked his cradle at a

small spring about a hundred and fifty yards away. To this spring he

had scarped a footpath along the mountain side, and over this footpath

he harrowed his stuff. He seemed seldom or never to sleep. It was his

custom to knock off work comparatively early in the afternoon. Until

about nine o'clock he would stroll about. Then he would recommence

work, and we would often hear the barrow going all night long. Most of

the daytime he spent cradling at the spring.

Occasionally, in the evening, this strange being would come and stand

near our tent. Wolff, who hated him, strongly objected to this; he

thought the man came to listen to our conversation. My theory, which I

fully believe to have been the right one, was that the lonely creature

sometimes felt an irresistible longing for human companionship.

The belief currently held regarding Mulcahy was to the effect that he

had been a noted "road agent" that is to say, a highway robber in

California. One incident, of which I was a witness, might be taken to

indicate that at least he had something very heavy on his conscience.

One evening Wolff and I were watching the approach of a very violent

thunderstorm. Just as it broke, and while we were in the act of

fastening the tent-door, Mulcahy appeared and, to my surprise, asked if

he might come in. Wolff gave no answer, but I replied in the

affirmative. Mulcahy entered, and the three of us sat down, Wolff and I

on one bunk and the visitor on the other. The table was between the

bunks.

Our tent had what is known as a "fly"; that is to say, a second roof

pitched about six inches above the ordinary one. The rain came down in

torrents and the wind blew with great violence. The inner roof remained

dry, except where the outer one flapped against it. This contact

happened just over where Mulcahy was sitting, and occasioned a wet mark

resembling, in rough outline, the head, shoulders, and outstretched

arms of a human being. The mark was fully visible to Wolff and me, but

could not be seen by Mulcahy, although the canvas on which it appeared

sloped immediately over him.

Wolff, who was a big, heavy man, very slow of speech, said in his

halting, broken English

"Mulcahy, dere is de ghost of dat last man you shot in California."

Mulcahy turned, shot a glance back towards where Wolff's eyes were

directed, and fell forward on the table. When he lifted his face it was

drawn and the color of ashes; his eyes were full of horror. It was a

terribly dramatic scene.

Shortly after this Mulcahy took a partner, a man named Friese. They

found a great deal of gold.

The last time I saw Mulcahy was in 1876, at East London. I was then

working on a surf boat, and in passing under the stern of a steamer,

the anchor of which was being weighed, I noticed a yellow bearded man

leaning over the rail. His face was not turned towards me;

nevertheless, I felt I could hardly be mistaken as to his identity. I

called out his name; he turned, and I saw that it was Mulcahy, right

enough. He recognized me at once, and apparently was delighted to see

me. We conversed for a short while, but my boat was soon worked away on

the warp, out of earshot. I afterwards heard that Mulcahy had taken

several thousand pounds sterling with him to Cape Town, and that there

he purchased a liquor-shop in a low quarter of the city. Shortly

afterwards he died insane.

The tunnel at the saddle having to be abandoned on account of our

striking a mass of loose rock through which it was impossible to drive

without more expensive appliances than we possessed, Wolff left the

service of the company. I was anxious to leave too, because alluvial

gold had been struck in rich patches on and near the saddle. But

Simpson made a point of my remaining for a few weeks longer in his

employ, for the sake of protecting the company's supposed interests.

I wished to peg out, on my own account, the site where my tent stood,

but this I could not do so long as the claims of the company were held

in my name. On the very day the company suspended operations all the

vacant ground on and about the saddle was pegged out. Most of those who

"rushed" the vicinity were New Zealanders from Hokitika. The site on

which my tent stood was appropriated by a man named Cunningham. When

ground was required for mining purposes, any one tenting on it had to

remove.

Within five minutes of Cunningham's first pick-stroke, he struck the

"lead." On merely turning over the surface sods the nuggets could be

picked out like plums from a cake. The bedrock was soft soapy shale;

there was no "wash" in the ordinary sense of the term. Loam, with which

small, angular fragments of quartz were mixed, covered the bedrock to a

depth of about six inches. But this bedrock turned out to be scored by

a small gutter or channel a few inches deep and about eighteen inches

wide, which ran for about twenty feet through the middle of the claim.

The surface soil gave no indication of the existence of the channel.

The bottom of this channel was literally paved with nuggets. The stuff

it contained gave an average of over four ounces to the pan; it had to

be harrowed to Mulcahy's spring, there to be cradled. Within a few

weeks the claim was worked out, for there was no gold to be found

outside the channel. But the gold won by Cunningham was worth over

4,000. The legs of my bunk had actually been sunk in the richest part

of the ground, they must have literally been touching some of the

nuggets. This was but one of the several occasions upon which I all but

grasped the skirts of Fortune.

Soon a water-race was brought in from the opposite side of the valley

on the southern slope of the saddle a distance of about four miles.

Then ground-sluicing operations began. I again took service, this time

with a party of New Zealanders. I never knew how much gold was found by

them, but the amount must have been considerable. I was not permitted

to be present at any "wash up," but in the stages just previous to that

climax I used to see nuggets lying thickly about whenever the water

cleared. No one, even though he were one of the partners was allowed to

pick up gold before the end of the "wash up," all had to come into the

pan.

My best friend among these men was a gigantic Swede who was called

Peter. He had another name, but, as he said himself, it would be

necessary to take a pinch of snuff before you could pronounce it

properly. Ordinarily the most good-natured of men, Peter became an

elemental savage when hungry. If then spoken to his only reply would be

a snarl quite likely to be followed by a blow. However, as Peter ate,

his normal placidity gradually returned. When fully satisfied he would

say leaning back with a smile and a sigh of satisfaction.

"Now a little child might play mit me." To show how little surnames

counted for in those days I will mention a trifling incident. My tent

mate among the New Zealanders went by the name of Bill. One Saturday

afternoon I remained at the tent, the other members of the party having

gone down to the Lower Camp; a native brought up a parcel containing a

blanket and addressed to "Mr. William Bogis." I sent the boy away,

saying that I did not know of any one bearing that name. Next day Bill

was swearing at the storekeeper for not having sent up a blanket he had

bought. I innocently related what had happened, and then Bill swore at

me. "Mr. William Bogis" had been my tent-mate for several weeks and I

was unaware of the fact.

In 1889, when traveling from Kimberley to Johannesburg by coach, I

picked up an old newspaper at a wayside hotel. In it was a paragraph

giving an account of how a prospector named William Bogis had been

blown to pieces in a shaft somewhere in Northern Bechuanaland. I have

no doubt this related to my old mate.

A very curious character at Pilgrim's Rest was a man named Fabayne,

whose dwelling-place was a cave under a cliff about half-way up the

creek on the northern side. Fabayne was well-connected, his father was

a Church dignitary, a dean, I fancy and was evidently well off; for he

allowed the scapegrace son 200 per annum, paid quarterly. Fabayne was a

university man and an accomplished scholar, but he had gone the pace at

an unusually rapid rate. When I knew him he was a hopeless drunkard.

Whenever Fabayne drew a 50 installment he would place 45 in the hands

of the keeper of a certain bar, and 5 with a butcher whose shop was in

the vicinity. He would then get drunk and remain so as long as the 45

lasted. During the continuance of his spree it was his custom to remain

on the bar premises night and day, and to stand treat to all and

sundry. It was understood that the bar-keeper was to fire him out as

soon as the deposit became exhausted. This usually happened in about

three weeks. He would then return to his cave.

The 5 was meant to keep him in food and clothes until the next

installment fell due. He used to fetch a sheep's pluck every day and

make soup of it in a billy. The butcher used his own discretion in the

matter of clothes, but when Fabayne grew more than ordinarily ragged I

fancy the bar-keeper contributed towards his outfit, a thing he could,

under the circumstances, well afford to do.

A complete inventory of the belongings of this strange being would have

included a pick, a shovel, a pan, and an old sluice-box, none of which

he ever used, also a blanket, a big knife, a billy, and a Greek

Testament. The cave, although draughty, was comfortable and fairly dry.

Now and then I shared it with Fabayne; generally on those occasions

when I sold my tent. He was a charming companion, not alone was he

exceedingly well-read, but he was sympathetic and helpful to a degree.

I have many a time seasoned my mealie porridge with his pluck soup, and

found the seasoning good.

When "getting off" after one of his quarterly sprees, Fabayne's habits

were apt to be trying to one like myself, without an allowance, and who

had to work hard and constantly to keep body and soul together. For

instance, he would sometimes sit half the night through, at the mouth

of the cave, declaiming Sophocles. I could not understand a word he

uttered, but his elocution was good, his voice was well modulated, and

the sonorous periods of the choruses from the "Antigone" and the

"Elektra" were effective by virtue of their mere sound.

This sort of thing was all very well up to about nine o'clock; after

that, however, it became annoying. But it was impossible to stop him. I

used to pelt him with fairly heavy stones, and although I must

sometimes have hurt him rather severely, he took no notice. Fabayne

admitted that he was deliberately drinking himself to death; trying to

argue him out of this intention proved to be of not the slightest

avail.

I recall a wedding which had a sequel very characteristic of its

environment. A certain digger his name has escaped me, although I knew

the man well married a rather pretty girl. The ceremony took place in a

little church that had recently been built near the Middle Camp, and in

which the Rev. Mr. B used occasionally used to officiate. This church

stood on a small knoll, a straight pathway leading steeply up to it

from the creek.

By common consent every one within sight struck work and assembled

close to the church for the purpose of giving the bride and bridegroom

a cheer on their emerging. I should say that from thirty to forty men

lined the pathway on each side. Nearly every one had provided himself

with an old boot for the occasion. After the knot had been tied the

happy couple passed down the hill between the lines of their cheering

friends. Then, at a given signal, we all let fly the boots in a volley

taking care, of course, that neither bride nor bridegroom was hit. Then

one man picked up a fairly heavy boot from where it had fallen and

deliberately hurled it at the bride, striking her on the back. The

perpetrator of this outrage was, needless to say, a discarded suitor.

The bridegroom turned round, took off his coat which he handed to the

bride to hold and rolled up his sleeves. He knew quite well who had

thrown the missile. A ring was at once formed, and the fight began. It

only lasted, however, for three rounds. The bridegroom was victorious;

he escaped without a scratch. The other man was, as he richly deserved

to be, severely punished. It was, however, just as well for him that

this was the case, otherwise we would have ducked him in the muddiest

tail race within reach. As the victor marched off with his proud mate

he received an immense ovation. I regret to have to record the fact

that the officiating parson was taken down to Tom Craddock's bar and

there made very drunk indeed.

When I camped near the Big Rock on Slater's Claim there lived, on the

flat where the creek widened out under Gardiner's Point, an American

named Knox. He was a tall, swarthy man of immensely powerful physique.

Originally a sailor from, I think, Martha's Vineyard, he had deserted

from his ship in the early days of the diamond-fields.

Knox was a quiet, inoffensive man, except when under the influence of

drink. Then he was, in local parlance, "a holy terror." He would get a

keg of Mauritius rum, a most ferocious intoxicant, open it, fasten up

his tent, and go to bed. For several days thereafter Knox would not be

dangerous, unless you tripped over the tent-ropes or tried to open the

tent. However, he eventually reached a stage during which if he heard

footsteps anywhere in his vicinity he would fire his revolver in the

direction of the sound. The canvas sides of his tent were riddled with

bullet-holes, I only remember one case in which damage actually

resulted, it was that of a native who got a bullet through the calf of

his leg.

After a time people "in the know" avoided the vicinity of Knox's tent

whenever he was on the spree. Sometimes, when in the later stages of

his cups, Knox would fire in all directions apparently for the purpose

of relieving his feelings. However, as there were no tents very close

to his, this did not matter so very much. Many a time have I heard the

old Colt revolver barking at intervals through the evening, but the

performance was taken quite as a matter of course. One would merely say

to another:

"Hullo, there's Knox at it again. I suppose he'll be out to-morrow or

the day after."

I remember something which caused much comment early in 1875. I can

vouch for the details, so far as I relate them. On New Year's Night,

1874, three men met at a bar known as "The Half-way House," which stood

where the creek narrowed and made a sharp turn a few hundred yards

above the Middle Camp. The late John Barrington, afterwards of Knysna,

was one, another was a man named Marshall, the name of the third I have

forgotten.

Just before midnight they drank to a profane and senseless toast,

"Before this day twelve months may we all die in a tail-race and be

covered by tailings." "Tailings" are the waste products of the

sluice-box, the sand and gravel carried away by the stream of water

which flows over the "ripples."

About four months afterwards the man whose name I have forgotten was

out prospecting among the higher ranges to the north of the creek. He

fell ill and endeavored to return to camp, but a bitterly cold rain set

in and he perished miserably. Soon afterwards Marshall, who had been in

the Low Country, went down with fever. The attack was comparatively

light, so he soon got better. But one dark night, while still somewhat

weak, he went out to visit a friend. Not far from the tent of the

latter a "head-race," which is not just the same as a "tail-race," had

recently been dug. As the digging had been effected while Marshall was

laid up, he was unaware of the existence of the excavation.

The head-race was about eight feet deep; it was wide at the top, but it

narrowed down to about a foot's-breadth at the bottom. Into this chasm

poor Marshall fell headlong, and his shoulders jammed where the channel

narrowed. Owing to weakness he was unable to extricate himself, and his

head, being downward, damned the water up so that it drowned him. The

tent of the friend he had intended to visit stood close by. This man

noticed that the flow of the water stopped several times and then went

on again with a rush. This was caused by the struggles of the unhappy

Marshall as he was drowning.

Nothing happened to John Harrington, whom I met fourteen years

afterwards in Cape Town, but in view of the two fatalities he was

somewhat uneasy until the following New Year's Day had arrived.

Another terrible accident was the one in which a friend of mine named

Blenkins lost his life. I have a very clear recollection of the

circumstances. The thing happened on the afternoon of the day on which

I returned from the "rush" to Rotunda Creek.

Blenkins was working on the high terrace known as Gardiner's Point. A

large quartzite boulder it was afterwards found to measure nearly

thirty tons stood embedded in the face of the claim, about three feet

above bedrock. This boulder had been stripped on one side.

Many attempts had been made towards causing it to drop forward, with

the view of rolling it down the face of the terrace. No one knew, of

course, how much of it was still concealed by the yet undisturbed

gravel. Poor Blenkins very unadvisedly sat down before it and began

loosening the wash underneath with a driving-pick. Suddenly the boulder

fell forward and pinned him to the bedrock, from the waist downwards. I

was at work in the creek below. I heard a shout and saw men running

from every direction up the face of the terrace. I joined the stream. I

shall never forget what I saw when I reached the scene of the accident.

It was hours before we succeeded in shifting the boulder. We only

managed this by excavating a pit in the bedrock and rolling the monster

into it. Whilst doing this two other men nearly lost their lives.

My poor friend was alive and conscious all the time. The only mercy was

that he did not suffer physically; he was too badly crushed. He died

soon after being released. Blenkins was extremely popular. His tent

stood within about fifteen yards of mine.

The professional digger of those days was a being sui generis. Shrewd,

frugal, industrious, and capable of taking care of himself while in his

accustomed environment, he was apt to become as helpless as a child

when he reached unfamiliar surroundings. Thus, a successful digger

wishing to invest his "pile" was often the prey of the first specious

rogue he met.

Poor Alick Dempster! All old Pilgrims will remember him and the rich

little "pocket" he struck close to John Barrington's claim, and just

below the "Half-way House." Dempster was a digger of the old school. He

disbelieved in banks, so always kept his gold in his tent. Whenever he

wished to go anywhere, no matter what the distance, he walked. He

preferred nuggets and "dust" to notes or specie; when he made a

purchase he liked to weigh out the equivalent of the price across the

counter from his chamois leather bag. He usually got drunk on Saturday

night, but not to such an extent as to lose his reason.

After his "pocket" had been worked out Dempster decided to revisit his

native country, Scotland. So he entertained his friends at a farewell

banquet, packed his swag with 220 ounces of gold carefully secured in

the middle and started on a tramp to Durban. A lot of his friends

accompanied him to the Blyde River Drift, and there gave him a parting

cheer. Even now I can see him sturdily walking up the hill after he had

crossed the river, and pausing to wave his hat to us in farewell.

Dempster arrived safely in Durban and booked his passage to England.

But the enforced idleness on the voyage preyed on his mind; the strange

surroundings irked him; he took to drink badly. One day, when in the

Bay of Biscay, he rushed on deck carrying his leather bag of gold.

After flinging this into the sea he leaped over-board. Dempster was

fished out; the gold, of course, went to the bottom.

A few months afterwards a striking and realistic picture of poor Alick

Dempster's escapade occupied the place of honor in the Police News.

Little detail was given, what there was resembled a nightmare. Just

touching the water and causing a tremendous splash was a

conventionally, designed gold-bag labeled "800." In the air, descending

from the ship's rail, in what the late Lewis Carroll would have

described as an Anglo-Saxon attitude, was a figure purporting to be

Alick himself, but it was hardly a recognizable portrait.

This work of sensational art caused great excitement in the camp. There

was only one copy, and that was in immense demand so much so that the

owner found himself suddenly famous. Prompted by a simple desire to be

obliging, he pasted the picture on the lid of a packing-case, and

printed the legend "This is Alick Dempster" beneath it in large

letters. A native was hired to carry the board up and down the creek,

beating an old tin billy to attract attention. This thoughtful

proceeding was much appreciated. One may wonder as to how it struck the

native.

CHAPTER IX

Expedition to Delagoa Bay--A rencontre at Constantinople--Morisot and the

lion--Game in the Low Country--The Barber encampment--Lion's attack by

daylight--Lions in the donga--The lion's voice--Ways of the lion--The lion

an eater of carrion--Tyrer and the buffalo--Veld fires--A piece of bad

luck--The Low Country rivers--Snakes--Hyenas--Louren Marques--Funeral of

Pat Foote--Discovery of gold near Blyde River--Anticipated affluence

Disappointment

I am here met by the difficulty that many of my exploring, hunting, and

prospecting adventures during the years 1874 and 1875 have been

described in one or other of my published works, either as stated fact

or fact disguised as fiction. Nevertheless, I will endeavor to recall a

few as yet unrecorded reminiscences of adventure by flood and field

during that period.