TRIP TO THE TUGELA.—MARITZBURG.—BISHOP COLENSO.—UMGENI FALLS.—ESTCOURT
LIDGETTON.—CURIOUS ABSENCE OF FISH IN MOOI RIVER.—CAPT. ALLISON’S BORDER
RESIDENCY.—USIDINANE’S CANNIBAL CAVES.— MONT AUX SOURCES.—UMBUNDI’S
PASS.—RETURN JOURNEY.
After five years’ work without any intermission, I made arrangements
early in 1870 to take a trip up country as far as the Drakensberg, a
range of mountains which divides Natal from the Free State and
Basutoland. I proposed to visit Captain Allison “at home” in his border
residency, to see the celebrated falls, where I had been told the
Tugela, rushing over awe-inspiring and romantic precipices, leaps 1,500
feet at a bound, then to visit the Mont aux sources, where from one
single spot the Tugela issues forth on its course to Natal, the Elands
River to the Free State, the Caledon to Basutoland, and the Orange River
through the Cape Colony to the Atlantic Ocean; and further to explore
the cannibal caves of Usidinane, situated in the heart of Putini’s tribe
and Langalibalela’s location.
My wife, myself, Captain Hill, of the Victoria mounted rifles, an
amateur photographer and four natives formed our party. Getting the
wagons, oxen and provisions all in readiness, we left Verulam on March
3d.
[Illustration:
UMZABA’S KRAAL, 1867.
]
The country between D’Urban and Maritzburg, the capital of the Natal
colony, ascends gradually from the sea level to an elevation of over
2,000 feet, sometimes in gentle slopes, sometimes in abrupt and rugged
steps. Our road lay through the village of Pinetown, a noted health
resort, round the cuttings of that precipitous height called Bothas
Hill, which afforded glimpses in the far distance of the fantastic
mountains, with their volcanic cones and extinct craters, of the Inanda
location, and the gloomy defiles through which the Umgeni River could be
seen twisting and winding. Then passing the Inchanga cutting, with huge
blocks of granite hundreds of tons in weight studding the foreground,
and Camperdown, a hamlet consisting of two or three homesteads and a
third-rate roadside inn, we at last reached Maritzburg, some fifty miles
from the coast. Here we remained over Sunday, and of course went to the
cathedral and heard Bishop Colenso preach. The sacred edifice was
crowded, as we were told it always was when this revered prelate
occupied the pulpit; and I may here say that his noble and commanding
presence, an attraction in itself, added greatly to the fascination of
his eloquence. The sermon that the bishop gave us on the morning on
which I heard him dealt with the trials and sufferings of Christ. In
vain I looked out for heretical doctrines, but seldom has it been my
privilege to listen to a sermon so devout in spirit and withal so
orthodox.
It was difficult indeed, seeing and hearing him, to realize the
opposition with which he was then meeting, or to comprehend the
presumption, I might say the gnarling, that characterized the majority
of his revilers.
While walking round the city I noticed that everything looked clean and
cheerful. The streams of water running in open sluits along the side of
the foot-paths, the clusters of weeping willows, the rows of stately
syringas, and the pretty villas nestling in clumps of the densest
foliage, conveyed the impression of ease and comfort. I also visited the
various public buildings, including the banks, schools, library and
hospital. On my last evening in Maritzburg, spending a few hours at the
Victoria club, I met Judge Phillips (subsequently promoted to a similar
judicial office in Cyprus), who, when talking over the route which I
intended to take, told me that after reaching the summit of the
Drakensberg and visiting the falls of the Tugela, I ought to come down
again into Natal through a pass named after a certain chief Umbundi,
“where,” he said, “you will have, if my information be correct, to pick
your way through a forest of magnificent cypress trees such as you have
never before seen.” I thanked him at the time for his information, and
often since have I been glad that I took the judge’s suggested route,
where, as he told me I should and as will be seen later, I found one of
the grandest and most novel sights in South Africa. Next day, we left
Maritzburg and ascended the Town Hill. Here we noticed the terraced
character of the country, for this road rising step by step, at least
1,500 feet, landed us fairly on the plateau which forms the midland
districts of Natal, where the long, rolling, grassy sweeps are the
principal features of the landscape.
The cracks of the long whip, the shouts of the driver, the regular times
to outspan and inspan, to eat and sleep, are the only events to break
the monotony of a wagon journey. The power of the trusty wagon whip,
with its crack so “loud and sharp,” has so bewitchingly been sung by Mr.
Charles Barter, one of Natal’s oldest colonists, that I need not offer
any excuse for reproducing it here. Many a time, to the tune of the
“Fine old English Gentleman,” have I listened to the lay.
Britannia’s three great colonies, though children of one mother,
Yet each in habits as in soil, must differ from the other,
And each some symbol vaunts to show—the rapture of her soil,
A humble household symbol of her settlers’ honest toil.
So we along the Southern Coast, let none who hear deride,
Will sing our trusty wagon whip, with its lash of sea-cow hide,
Will sing our trusty wagon whip, with its lash of sea-cow hide.
Through many a dreary wilderness, o’er many a barren moor,
From Western Cape to fair Natal first trekked the stalwart Boer,
His was the white-capt wagon, his was the steady team,
And he cut the lash from the reeking hide of the sea-cow by the stream.
And the savage quaked when first he heard up steep Quathlamba’s side,
The crack of our dreaded wagon whip, with its lash of sea-cow hide,
The crack of our dreaded wagon whip, with its lash of sea-cow hide.
The Australian boasts his stock-whip stout, with which in mad career
He urges o’er the boundless plain the wild unbroken steer,
Or drives his herds to pastures new in swift and headlong flight,
Down many a stony torrent bed, o’er many a rocky height.
But though loud and sharp its cracks resound adown the mountain’s side,
Yet it cannot match our wagon whip, with its lash of sea-cow hide,
Yet it cannot match our wagon whip, with its lash of sea-cow hide.
By Canada’s backwoodsman aye the narrow axe is borne,
Fit emblem of his wooded home—no theme for jest or scorn,
Right well her darksome forests know the sway of its fateful stroke,
As in answering crash comes thundering down tall pine or stately oak.
We may not scorn the narrow axe, the bold backwoodsman’s pride,
But we’ll shout ha! ha! for our wagon whip, with its lash of sea-cow
hide,
But we’ll shout ha! ha! for our wagon whip, with its lash of sea-cow
hide.
Then here’s to the tree our gardens yield, the tapering light bamboo,
And here’s to the hand that can wield it well, gin his heart be leal and
true,
And here’s to the slow and steady team that all the livelong day,
Through rough and smooth, with even pace, still plod their onward way,
And here’s to the Vorslacht’s clap, which wakes the echoes far and wide.
Then hurrah! hurrah! for our wagon whip, with its lash of sea-cow hide,
Then hurrah! hurrah! for our wagon whip, with its lash of sea-cowhide.
But the rest from work did us all good. About thirteen miles from
Maritzburg we made a halt in order to see the beautiful falls of the
Umgeni, which are close to the drift where we crossed. The river here
has worn its way through piles of columnar basalt to the edge of an
awful precipice, where in one terrific leap of 372 feet it has for
countless ages fallen into the broad, deep pool below, the encircling
rocks around being clothed with trees, exotic ferns and flowers both
beautiful and rare. Many a tale was told us of “moving accidents by
flood and field,” of the sudden, tumultuous rush of waters when a flood
came down, of belated wayfarers and of rash unfortunates washed over
into the abyss. Leaving the pretty village adjacent to the falls, with
its church and wayside inn, reminding one of old England, we went on,
still ascending, another 1,600 feet to the Karkloof. I must not forget
to mention that a few miles before we came to this range we passed
Lidgetton, where the early settlers under the Burns’ scheme were first
located. Here our attention was drawn to the gentle puffs of smoke
lazily curling up from the steam mills working away in the forest,
where, almost unseen by mortal eye, they were turning out the timber
from which the colony obtains most of its best wagon material.
Trekking slowly, we crossed the Bushman River, the natives, seeing our
wagons from a distance, bringing chickens, marrows, pumpkins, and milk
for sale, until we came to the village of Estcourt, prettily situated on
its banks, where I enjoyed a nice plunge in the river, which here purls
over a pebbly bottom in a clear and crystal stream. Curiously enough,
the Mooi River, a few miles nearer the Drakensberg, is shunned by any
species of fish for miles, while in this river they abound. Here we were
awakened one night, having outspanned late, by the noise as of dogs
licking out the pots under our wagon, but as we had no dogs with us, we
could not make it out, until our natives next morning, from foot-prints
they saw, told us that hyenas had been prowling all round us, which was
in this part of Natal a matter of unusual occurrence.
Pushing on, our next stage was Colenso, where the Tugela, beginning to
assume grand proportions, courses swiftly to the sea; here, leaving the
main road, we turned to the left, and trekking thirty miles further
along a by-road but little used, came at last to the picturesque cottage
where Captain Allison was living, seven miles from the spot where the
Tugela falls over the perpendicular face of the berg. After cordial
greetings we rested for the night, being most kindly entertained by Mrs.
Allison and her daughters. The place seemed an “oasis in the desert,”
for here, far away from the civilized world, we suddenly found ourselves
in the midst of a circle as highly cultured as they were truly
hospitable. While fully acquainted, out of the world as their residence
might seem, with the latest sensations in literature, and doings of the
fashionable world in European capitals, our delightful host and hostess
had not neglected the study of the zoology of the colony, as their small
but carefully selected menagerie of cranes, mahens, quaggas, baboons,
etc., was sufficient to prove. Next day, with native police and horses
which our host had kindly provided, off we started before the sun was
hot to visit the Cannibal caves of Usidinane. I recollect, even now,
what a merry party we were that morning, and how we made the mountains
ring with our joyous shouts and mirth. Our guides, infected with our
exuberant spirits, chanted a war-song as they marched jauntily along in
single file leading the way, while we, riding behind, followed them by a
Kafir path which led over broken ridges up the steep, water-worn side of
a rugged mountain. After climbing some frightful ledges on its face, we
suddenly found ourselves in front of the entrance to the Cannibal caves
of the once so-much-talked-of Usidinane. This man, now a petty chief,
though formerly not possessing any tribal rights, used some sixty years
ago to live in these caves with his father and other natives, who, as
well as himself, were driven by starvation to become cannibals when the
country was overrun by the _impis_ and invading legions of the Zulu
king, Chaka, and the war-cries of that despot’s braves reverberated
through the mountains. Usidinane is still living, at an advanced age, in
charge of a few descendants of these cannibals, who, when Natal became
tranquilized, came forth from the shelter they had sought, and occupied
ground in the immediate vicinity, and are now called by the tribal name
of Amazizi. Off-saddling on our arrival at the caves, before we
commenced our exploration, we greedily set to work and ate up all the
provisions we had brought, the keen mountain air having made us
ravenously hungry.
My wife, though an excellent horsewoman, was greatly fatigued, so we
determined, the day being far spent before our examination of the
caverns was finished, to remain all night in them and return next
morning. With the caves themselves I was rather disappointed, as they
were merely like huge lime quarries scooped out in the rocks, yet
evidence was not wanting of their having been tenanted by human beings,
the charred ceilings and the vestiges of fire and bone-ash being
distinctly to be seen in their gloomy recesses. It is to my mind an
interesting fact that human flesh is never anywhere chosen by man from a
sense of preference—either necessity, not depravity, compels—or revenge,
not appetite, prompts its use. Some savages consume human flesh as a
sacred rite, a part of their religion in honor of the dead, some as a
sentiment of affection, and others again with the idea that principles
such as courage and honor are conveyed from the dead to the living.[12]
Colonel Bowker, whose name is so honorably associated with Basutoland,
in an article communicated to the _Cape Monthly_, in 1869, describing a
visit to the Putiasana Caves, in that country, says: “There was but
little disguising it [cannibalism], and the people when questioned spoke
freely of it, as first a necessity and then a choice,” but this I think
was simply native braggadocio. Charles Waterton, in his “Natural History
Essays,” bears out my opinion. In his essay on “Cannibalism,” he says:
“Before I can bring my mind to believe in the existence of cannibalism
such as I have defined it at the commencement of these fugitive notes
(the feeding of man upon man incited solely by the calls of hunger) I
must be convinced that there really does exist a human being, no matter
in what part of the world, who will slay his fellow man without any
provocation having been offered or any excitement produced, but that he
is known to deprive him of his life merely for a supply of daily food,
just exactly with the same feelings and with no other than we should
shoot a hare or a pheasant to entertain a dinner party.”[13] I have
quoted this eminent author verbatim, and though there appears to be an
omission of some such word as “not only,” his meaning is sufficiently
evident.
When the sun went down the night became bitterly cold, so lighting a
large wood fire, we sat round its crackling flames, which threw a lurid
glare on as motley a group as that cave had ever held within its walls.
White and black, male and female, horses and dogs. There we might have
been seen, clustered all night round the embers of the dying fire,
dozing and “dreaming” anything but “the happy hours away.” At early
dawn, all shivering and shaking, hungry and tired, we began our return
to Captain Allison’s, where our native servants, not knowing what had
become of us, were overjoyed on our arrival.
[Illustration:
FALLS OF THE UMGENI, HOWICK, NEAR PIETERMARITZBURG.
]
From the place where we were outspanned we could see standing out in
bold relief some few miles away the magnificent panorama of the
Drakensberg range, the white silver streak of the Tugela dashing down
the mighty cliffs and dark, buttressed precipices in front, breaking
into “snow-white foam, leaping from rock to rock like the mountain
chamois,” and in the far distance, filling up the background of the
picture, the towering crests 10,000 feet high, of Champagne Castle and
Giant’s Castle, the highest summits of the range.
Resting a day and enjoying the inspection of Captain Allison’s stock,
admiring his horses, trying their speed and jumping powers in
hurdle-racing over the _veldt_, and indulging in a little long-range
rifle practice, I made all arrangements to leave my wife at the foot of
the mountain, ascend and see the falls from the plateau, which, although
extending far backward into the Free State, is terminated so abruptly in
front by the precipitous cliffs of the ever-frowning Drakensberg.
Captain Hill being taken suddenly unwell, I started with three of the
guides who had previously accompanied me to the Cannibal caves and some
of my own “boys.” Climbing over a spur of the Drakensberg at Olivier’s
Hock, I struck a lovely valley on the south side of a branch of the
Eland’s River; but as the water was low at the time I was able to follow
its meanderings for several miles. Jumping from boulder to boulder over
the water holes in its course, I ascended the rocky bed of what was then
a simple, gentle stream flowing along with quiet delight and singing the
same old song to which generations (for this country had once been
thickly populated) long since dead and gone had listened.
Suddenly, my guides, pointing to a large sandstone cliff up high in the
banks overlooking the river, suggested that we should rest. Scrambling
up we came to a large cave, when, to my intense surprise and delight, a
perfect picture gallery presented itself, the whole of the walls being
covered with rude Bushman drawings of bucks, elephants and men in
different positions, gloriously promiscuous but remarkably graphic. The
wild, the untamed Bushman I have never seen. Small and repulsive, he
lives entirely by hunting with the bow and poisoned arrow, and although
a few still lurk in the inaccessible cliffs of the Drakensberg range,
which I was gradually nearing, the majority have been driven away by
advancing civilization to the borders of Damara land and Lake Ngami. On
again, after a rest of a couple of hours a few miles brought us to the
pass, where the final struggle had to be made. What I had hitherto gone
through was child’s play compared to the task now in front. Large
perpendicular rocks, which to clamber over seemed almost an
impossibility, stood in the way, as if blocking our further advance, and
the pass itself contracting in width toward its summit, shut out the
light and cast a weird and gloomy shadow over the scene.
At last, dead tired out, we gained the top of the mighty Quathlamba,
10,000 feet above the sea. Walking on a few hundred yards through the
scarlet and purple heather, which here carpeted the summit, level like
those of most mountains in Africa, I came almost at once to the banks of
the long looked for Tugela, flowing quietly past to the tremendous
brink, over which it was so soon to madly plunge and disappear. At a
point in the semicircle of crags surrounding the falls I sat down with
my “boys” all around me to admire the glories of a scene which they
apparently enjoyed as much as I. Never anywhere, either before or since,
have I beheld such a glorious sight, or one of such stupendous
magnificence and savage grandeur. Neither cloud nor mist obscured our
view, and there we sat perfectly entranced, never thinking of the flight
of time, drinking in the beauty of the landscape, which lay stretched
out, a glorious phantasmagoria, thousands of feet below.
Drinking a bottle of champagne, which at Captain Allison’s suggestion I
had brought with me to the top, I, with the natives’ assistance, set to
work and built a cairn, as a memento of the occasion, in the centre of
which I placed the empty bottle with a minute of my visit inside; long
ere this, however, I expect some wandering Bushman or Mosuto in his
curiosity has leveled our handiwork to the ground, and felt the pangs of
bitter disappointment on uncorking the bottle! The next thing was to
prepare for the night. If it were cold in the caves below, what was it
here? When the sun went down I had to crouch over a fire which some of
the “boys” had contrived to light, though fuel was not easily found,
while the others were busy making me a bed out of some dry heather which
they had been gathering.
Turning in among this and the long grass they had cut, “tired nature’s
sweet restorer, balmy sleep,” soon covered me over “like a cloak,” and
in a few seconds I was indifferent to everything here below.
Early astir, we were welcomed by a most glorious sunrise, “the powerful
king of day rejoicing in the east,” pouring forth a flood of beams
tinted with such grandly gorgeous hues that with difficulty could I tear
myself away after casting “one longing, lingering look” behind at a
vista of such beauty as it may perhaps never again be my lot to behold.
But before bidding this scene adieu, most likely for ever, the natives,
by my order, pushed to the edge of the precipice a large boulder which
they rolled over the face of the cliff, whilst I, with a stop watch,
lying over the precipice with one of my men to hold me, lest I should
become dizzy, marked the time the faint sound of its striking the rocks
below came back to my ear. This I tried several times with the same
result—twelve seconds—thus proving that the Tugela here falls in one
unbroken sheet 1,600 feet.[14] After a cup of coffee, following out one
of my original intentions, I spent some time in searching for the fossil
remains of the large _dinosaur_, a gigantic reptile, which had been
obtained in these mountains, but without success. At last we set off to
find Umbundi’s pass, leading to the Ulandi valley, named so by the
Kafirs after one of the peaks of the berg, by which route I hoped we
should return to the wagons. Following for two or three miles the edge
of the Drakensberg, Captain Allison’s police found out the pass for
which we were looking. We hastened on and coming to its entrance,
immediately commenced our descent. It was a narrow gorge, a perfect
chink in the mountain, and the pathway leading down by a gradual slope,
we could see was nothing more than the acute angle formed by the meeting
together of the opposite sides of the ravine. We left the top about 10
A. M., and progressed very satisfactorily for two hours, the scenery
becoming at every step more fascinating, sublime and majestic.
We appeared to be gradually leaving the world behind and sinking down to
unfathomable depths, while the cliffs above, majestically towering on
each side, one after another disappeared from our view as we pursued our
devious course.
“Echo to echo, groan for groan,
From deep to deep replies.”
At last we came to a sudden stop, an incident which will remain engraved
on my memory as long as I live.
We were brought to a stand-still by a steep, smoothly-worn chasm in the
rock, having a large and apparently deep pool of water, as clear as
crystal and as transparent and sparkling as glass at its base. How to
get past this obstacle was the question! None of my guides would venture
to drop over into the pool, and as the sides were equally precipitous,
we resolved, after mature deliberation, to turn back, and ascending
again, creep along a narrow ridge running longitudinally with the pass
but some 300 feet higher up the mountain sides. Thus avoiding the pool,
we hoped once more to descend and regain the more beaten track which we
had been obliged to leave. This we did in safety after experiencing
immense difficulty and danger. The mountain ledge to which we had
climbed, and along which we had contrived to limp our way, not being
more than a yard wide, and being studded with large, slippery stones and
bordered by precipitous cliffs both above and below, sloping at an angle
of 45°. As we descended from this giddy height, we at once found
ourselves in the forest of cypress trees (_Cupressus Wellingtona_,
so-called after a botanist of that name) which I have before mentioned.
These trees,[15] clothed in their sombre funereal foliage, seemed
altogether out of place, all the rest of nature seeming bright and gay,
while they appeared doleful and sad. Making our way for some distance
through what I may call this hypochondriacal freak of nature, we saw at
last signs of returning life and animation, the sheep and goats browsing
on the hillsides and the lowing cattle and neighing horses grazing on
the “veldt” below. I breathed freely once more when we emerged from
Umbundi’s gloomy pass into the valley of rare beauty and attraction
leading to Captain Allison’s, and wound our way through the kraals of
the Amangwani tribe, who people that locality, and I can assure my
readers that I felt relieved when, after a long day of danger and
excitement, I found myself safe at his hospitable house once more.
[Illustration:
THE FALLS OF THE TUGELA, DRAKENSBERG.
]
To my intense disappointment, I found that through some mistake all my
party had left six hours before my return, leaving me to follow alone;
so bidding Captain Allison and his family farewell, I rode after the
wagons, but it was not until two next morning I caught them up
outspanned nine miles beyond Colenso.
Nothing of particular moment occurred during our return to Verulam,
where I shortly resumed practice, much invigorated by the change.
[Illustration]