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28. touched the water, backward and forward, with slow, monotonous
heaving, our little vessel swayed with the swaying rollers until
everybody on board felt sick and sorry. “This is comparatively a calm
day,” I was told: “you can’t possibly imagine from this what rolling
really is.” But I can imagine quite easily, and do not at all desire a
closer acquaintance with this restless Indian Ocean. Breakfast is a
moment of penance: little G—— is absolutely fainting from agonies
of sea-sickness, though he has borne all our South-Atlantic tossings
with perfect equanimity; and it is with real joy, that I hear the
lifeboat is alongside, and that the kind-hearted captain of the
Florence (how kind sailors are!) offers to take babies, nurse and me
on shore, so as to escape a long day of this agonizing rolling. In
happy unconsciousness of what landing at East London, even in a
lifeboat, meant when a bar had to be crossed, we were all tumbled
and bundled, more or less unceremoniously, into the great, roomy
boat, and were immediately taken in hand by the busy little tug. For
half a mile or more we made good progress in her wake, being in a
position to set at naught the threatening water-mountains which
came tumbling in furious haste from seaward. It was not until we
seemed close to the shore and all our troubles over that the tug was
obliged to cast us off, owing to the rapidly shoaling water, and we
prepared to make the best of our own way in. Bad was that best,
indeed, though the peril came and went so quickly that it is but a
confused impression I retain of what seemed to me a really terrible
moment. One instant I hear felicitations exchanged between our
captain—who sits protectingly close to me and poor, fainting little G
——, who lies like death in my arms—and the captain of the lifeboat.
The next moment, in spite of sudden panic and presence of danger,
I could laugh to hear the latter sing out in sharpest tones of terror
and dismay, “Ah, you would, would you?” coupled with rapid orders
to the stout rowers and shouts to us of “Look out!” and I do look
out, to see on one side sand which the retreating wave has sucked
dry, and in which the boat seems trying to bury herself as though
she were a mole: on the other hand there towers above us a huge
green wave, white-crested and curled, which is rushing at us like a
devouring monster. I glance, as I think, for the last time, at the pale
29. nurse, on whose lap lies the baby placidly sucking his bottle. I see a
couple of sailors lay hold of her and the child with one hand each,
whilst with the other they cling desperately to the thwarts. A stout
seafaring man flings the whole weight of his ponderous pilot-coated
body upon G—— and me: I hear a roar of water, and, lo! we are
washed right up alongside of the rude landing-place, still in the boat
indeed, but wet and frightened to the last degree. Looking back on it
all, I can distinctly remember that it was not the sight of the
overhanging wave which cost me my deadliest pang of sickening
fright, but the glimpse I caught of the shining, cruel-looking sand,
sucking us in so silently and greedily. We were all trembling so much
that it seemed as impossible to stand upright on the earth as on the
tossing waters, and it was with reeling, drunken-looking steps that
we rolled and staggered through the heavy sand-street until we
reached the shelter of an exceedingly dirty hotel. Everything in it
required courage to touch, and it was with many qualms that I
deposited limp little G—— on a filthy sofa. However, the mistress of
the house looked clean, and so did the cups and saucers she quickly
produced; and by the time we had finished a capital breakfast we
were all quite in good spirits again, and so sharpened up as to be
able to “mock ourselves” of our past perils and present discomforts.
Outside there were strange, beautiful shrubs in flower, tame pigeons
came cooing and bowing in at the door, and above all there was an
enchanting freshness and balminess in the sunny air.
In about an hour “Capting Florence” (as G—— styles our new
commander) calls for us and takes us out sight-seeing. First and
foremost, across the river to the rapidly-growing railway lines, where
a brand-new locomotive was hissing away with full steam up. Here
we were met and welcomed by the energetic superintendent of this
iron road, and, to my intense delight, after explaining to me what a
long distance into the interior the line had to go and how fast it was
getting on, considering the difficulties in the way of doing anything
in South Africa, from washing a pocket-handkerchief up to laying
down a railway, he proposed that we should get on the engine and
go as far as the line was open for anything like safe traveling. Never
30. were such delightful five minutes as those spent in whizzing along
through the park-like country and cutting fast through the heavenly
air. In vain did I smell that my serge skirts were getting dreadfully
singed, in vain did I see most uncertain bits of rail before me: it was
all too perfectly enchanting to care for danger or disgrace, and I
could have found it in my heart to echo G—— ’s plaintive cry for
“More!” when we came to the end and had to get off. But it consoled
us a little to watch the stone-breaking machine crunching up small
rocks as though they had been lumps of sugar, and after looking at
that we set off for the unfinished station, and could take in, even in
its present skeleton state, how commodious and handsome it will all
be some day. You are all so accustomed to be whisked about the
civilized world when and where you choose that it is difficult to make
you understand the enormous boon the first line of railway is to a
new country—not only for the convenience of travelers, but for the
transport of goods, the setting free of hundreds of cattle and horses
and drivers—all sorely needed for other purposes—and the fast-
following effects of opening up the resources of the back districts. In
these regions labor is the great difficulty, and one needs to hold both
patience and temper fast with both one’s hands when watching
either Kafir or Coolie at work. The white man cannot or will not do
much with his hands out here, so the navvies are slim-looking
blacks, who jabber and grunt and sigh a good deal more than they
work.
It is a fortunate circumstance that the delicious air keeps us all in a
chronic state of hunger, for it appears in South Africa that one is
expected to eat every half hour or so. And, shamed am I to confess,
we do eat—and eat with a good appetite too—a delicious luncheon
at the superintendent’s, albeit it followed closely on the heels of our
enormous breakfast at the dirty hotel. Such a pretty little bachelor’s
box as it was!—so cool and quiet and neat!—built somewhat after
the fashion of the Pompeian houses, with a small square garden full
of orange trees in the centre, and the house running round this
opening in four corridors. After lunch a couple of nice, light Cape
carts came to the door, and we set off to see a beautiful garden
31. whose owner had all a true Dutchman’s passion for flowers. Here
was fruit as well as flowers. Pineapples and jasmine, strawberries
and honeysuckle, grew side by side with bordering orange trees,
feathery bamboos and sheltering gum trees. In the midst of the
garden stood a sort of double platform, up whose steep border we
all climbed: from this we got a good idea of the slightly undulating
land all about, waving down like solidified billows to where the deep
blue waters sparkled and rolled restlessly beyond the white line of
waves ever breaking on the bar. I miss animal life sadly in these
parts: the dogs I see about the streets are few in number, and
miserably currish specimens of their kind. “Good dogs don’t answer
out here,” I am told: that is to say, they get a peculiar sort of
distemper, or ticks bite them, or they got weak from loss of blood, or
become degenerate in some way. The horses and cattle are small
and poor-looking, and hard-worked, very dear to buy and very
difficult to keep and to feed. I don’t even see many cats, and a pet
bird is a rarity. However, as we stood on the breezy platform I saw a
most beautiful wild bird fly over the rosehedge just below us. It was
about as big as a crow, but with a strange iridescent plumage. When
it flitted into the sunshine its back and wings shone like a rainbow,
and the next moment it looked perfectly black and velvety in the
shade. Now a turquoise-blue tint comes out on its spreading wings,
and a slant in the sunshine turns the blue into a chrysoprase green.
Nobody could tell me its name: our Dutch host spoke exactly like
Hans Breitmann, and declared it was a “bid of a crow,” and so we
had to leave it and the platform and come down to more roses and
tea. There was so much yet to be seen and to be done that we could
not stay long, and, laden with magnificent bouquets of gloire de
Dijon roses and honeysuckle, and divers strange and lovely flowers,
we drove off again in our Cape carts. I observed that instead of
saying “Whoa!” or checking the horses in any way by the reins, the
driver always whistles to them—a long, low whistle—and they stand
quite still directly. We bumped up and down, over extraordinarily
rough places, and finally slid down a steep cutting to the brink of the
river Buffalo, over which we were ferried, all standing, on a big punt,
or rather pontoon. A hundred yards or so of rapid driving then took
32. us to a sort of wharf which projected into the river, where the
important-looking little tug awaited us; and no sooner were we all
safely on board—rather a large party by this time, for we had gone
on picking up stragglers ever since we started, only three in number,
from the hotel—than she sputtered and fizzed herself off upstream.
By this time it was the afternoon, and I almost despair of making
you see the woodland beauty of that broad mere, fringed down to
the water’s edge on one side with shrubs and tangle of roses and
woodbine, with ferns and every lovely green creeping thing. That
was on the bank which was sheltered from the high winds: the other
hillside showed the contrast, for there, though green indeed, only a
few feathery tufts of pliant shrubs had survived the force of some of
these south-eastern gales. We paddled steadily along in mid-stream,
and from the bridge (where little G—— and I had begged “Capting
Florence” to let us stand) one could see the double of each leaf and
tendril and passing cloud mirrored sharp and clear in the crystalline
water. The lengthening shadows from rock and fallen crag were in
some places flung quite across our little boat, and so through the
soft, lovely air, flooded with brightest sunshine, we made our way,
up past Picnic Creek, where another stream joins the Buffalo, and
makes miniature green islands and harbors at its mouth, up as far as
the river was navigable for even so small a steamer as ours. Every
one was sorry when it became time to turn, but there was no
choice: the sun-burned, good-looking captain of the tug held up a
warning hand, and round we went with a wide sweep, under the
shadows, out into the sunlight, down the middle of the stream, all
too soon to please us.
Before we left East London, however, there was one more great
work to be glanced at, and accordingly we paid a hasty visit to the
office of the superintendent of the new harbor-works, and saw plans
and drawings of what will indeed be a magnificent achievement
when carried out. Yard by yard, with patient under-sea sweeping, all
that waste of sand brought down by the Buffalo is being cleared
away; yard by yard, two massive arms of solidest masonry are
stretching themselves out beyond those cruel breakers: the river is
33. being forced into so narrow a channel that the rush of the water
must needs carry the sand far out to sea in future, and scatter it in
soundings where it cannot accumulate into such a barrier as that
which now exists. Lighthouses will guard this safe entrance into a
tranquil anchorage, and so, at some not too far distant day, there is
good hope that East London may be one of the most valuable
harbors on this vast coast; and when her railway has reached even
the point to which it is at present projected, nearly two hundred
miles away, it will indeed be a thriving place. Even now, there is a
greater air of movement and life and progress about the little
seaport, what with the railway and the harbor-works, than at any
other place I have yet seen; and each great undertaking is in the
hands of men of first-rate ability and experience, who are as
persevering as they are energetic. After looking well over these most
interesting plans there was nothing left for us to do except to make
a sudden raid on the hotel, pick up our shawls and bags, pay a most
moderate bill of seven shillings and sixpence for breakfast for three
people and luncheon for two, and the use of a room all day,
piteously entreat the mistress of the inn to sell us half a bottle of
milk for G—— ’s breakfast to-morrow—as he will not drink the
preserved milk—and so back again on board the tug. The difficulty
about milk and butter is the first trouble which besets a family
traveling in these parts. Everywhere milk is scarce and poor, and the
butter such as no charwoman would touch in England. In vain does
one behold from the sea thousands of acres of what looks like
undulating green pasturage, and inland the same waving green
hillocks stretch as far as the eye can reach: there is never a sheep or
cow to be seen, and one hears that there is no water, or that the
grass is sour, or that there is a great deal of sickness about among
the animals in that locality. Whatever the cause, the result is the
same—namely, that one has to go down on one’s knees for a cupful
of milk, which is but poor, thin stuff at its best, and that Irish salt
butter out of a tub is a costly delicacy.
Having secured this precious quarter of a bottle of milk, for which I
was really as grateful as though it had been the Koh-i-noor, we
34. hastened back to the wharf and got on board the little tug again.
“Now for the bridge!” cry G—— and I, for has not Captain Florence
promised us a splendid but safe tossing across the bar? And
faithfully he and the bar and the boat keep their word, for we are in
no danger, it seems, and yet we appear to leap like a race-horse
across the strip of sand, receiving a staggering buffet first on one
paddle-wheel and then on the other from the angry guardian
breakers, which seem sworn foes of boats and passengers. Again
and again are we knocked aside by huge billows, as though the poor
little tug were a walnut-shell; again and again do we recover
ourselves, and blunder bravely on, sometimes with but one paddle in
the water, sometimes burying our bowsprit in a big green wave too
high to climb, and dashing right through it as fast as if we shut our
eyes and went at everything. The spray flies high over our heads, G
—— and I are drenched over and over again, but we shake the
sparkling water off our coats, for all the world like Newfoundland
dogs, and are all right again in a moment. “Is that the very last?”
asks G—— reluctantly as we take our last breaker like a five-barred
gate, flying, and find ourselves safe and sound, but quivering a good
deal, in what seems comparatively smooth water. Is it smooth,
though? Look at the Florence and all the other vessels. Still at it,
seesaw, backward and forward, roll, roll, roll! How thankful we all
are to have escaped a long day of sickening, monotonous motion!
But there is the getting on board to be accomplished, for the brave
little tug dare not come too near to her big sister steamboat or she
would roll over on her. So we signal for a boat, and quickly the
largest which the Florence possesses is launched and manned—no
easy task in such a sea, but accomplished in the smartest and most
seamanlike fashion. The sides of the tug are low, so it is not very
difficult to scramble and tumble into the boat, which is laden to the
water’s edge by new passengers from East London and their
luggage. When, however, we have reached the rolling Florence it is
no easy matter to get out of the said boat and on board. There is a
ladder let down, indeed, from the Florence’s side, but how are we to
use it when one moment half a dozen rungs are buried deep in the
sea, and the next instant ship and ladder and all have rolled right
35. away from us? It has to be done, however, and what a tower of
strength and encouragement does “Capting Florence” prove himself
at this juncture! We are all to sit perfectly still: no one is to move
until his name is called, and then he is to come unhesitatingly and
do exactly what he is told.
“Pass up the baby!” is the first order which I hear given, and that
astonishing baby is “passed up” accordingly. I use the word
“astonishing” advisedly, for never was an infant so bundled about
uncomplainingly. He is just as often upside down as not; he is
generally handed from one quartermaster to the other by the
gathers of his little blue flannel frock; seas break over his cradle on
deck, but nothing disturbs him. He grins and sleeps and pulls at his
bottle through everything, and grows fatter and browner and more
impudent every day. On this occasion, when—after rivaling Léotard’s
most daring feats on the trapeze in my scramble up the side of a
vessel which was lurching away from me—I at last reached the deck,
I found the ship’s carpenter nursing the baby, who had seized the
poor man’s beard firmly with one hand, and with the finger and
thumb of the other was attempting to pick out one of his merry blue
eyes. “Avast there!” cried the long-suffering sailor, and gladly
relinquished the mischievous bundle to me.
Up with the anchor, and off we go once more into the gathering
darkness of what turns out to be a wet and windy night. Next day
the weather had recovered its temper, and I was called upon deck
directly after breakfast to see the “Gates of St. John,” a really fine
pass on the coast where the river Umzimvubu rushes through great
granite cliffs into the sea. If the exact truth is to be told, I must
confess I am a little disappointed with this coast-scenery. I have
heard so much of its beauty, and as yet, though I have seen it under
exceptionally favorable conditions of calm weather, which has
allowed us to stand in very close to shore, I have not seen anything
really fine until these “Gates” came in view. It has all been
monotonous, undulating downs, here and there dotted with trees,
and in some places the ravines were filled with what we used to call
36. in New Zealand bush—i.e., miscellaneous greenery. Here and there a
bold cliff or tumbled pile of red rock makes a landmark for the
passing ships, but otherwise the uniformity is great indeed. The
ordinary weather along this coast is something frightful, and the
great reputation of our little Florence is built on the method in which
she rides dry and safe as a duck among these stormy waters. Now
that we are close to “fair Natal,” the country opens out and improves
in beauty. There are still the same sloping, rolling downs, but higher
downs rise behind them, and again beyond are blue and purpling
hills. Here and there, too, are clusters of fat, dumpy haystacks,
which in reality are no haystacks at all, but Kafir kraals. Just before
we pass the cliff and river which marks where No-Man’s Land ends
and Natal begins these little locations are more frequently to be
observed, though what their inhabitants subsist on is a marvel to
me, for we are only a mile or so from shore, and all the seeing
power of all the field-glasses on board fails to discern a solitary
animal. We can see lots of babies crawling about the hole which
serves as door to a Kafir hut, and they are all as fat as little pigs; but
what do they live on? Buttermilk, I am told—that is to say, sour milk,
for the true Kafir palate does not appreciate fresh, sweet milk—and a
sort of porridge made of mealies. I used to think “mealies” was a
coined word for potatoes, but it really signifies maize or Indian corn,
which is rudely crushed and ground, and forms the staple food of
man and beast.
In the mean time, we are speeding gayly over the bright waters,
never very calm along this shore. Presently we come to a spot
clearly marked by some odd-colored, tumbled-down cliffs and the
remains of a great iron butt, where, more than a hundred years ago,
the Grosvenor, a splendid clipper ship, was wrecked. The men nearly
all perished or were made away with, but a few women were got on
shore and carried off as prizes to the kraals of the Kafir “inkosis” or
chieftains. What sort of husbands these stalwart warriors made to
their reluctant brides tradition does not say, but it is a fact that
almost all the children were born mad, and their descendants are,
many of them, lunatics or idiots up to the present time. As the
37. afternoon draws on a chill mist creeps over the hills and provokingly
blots out the coast, which gets more beautiful every league we go. I
wanted to remain up and see the light on the bluff just outside Port
d’Urban, but a heavy shower drove me down to my wee cabin
before ten o’clock. Soon after midnight the rolling of the anchor-
chains and the sudden change of motion from pitching and jumping
to the old monotonous roll told us that we were once more outside a
bar, with a heavy sea on, and that there we must remain until the
tug came to fetch us. But, alas! the tug had to make short work of it
next morning, on account of the unaccommodating state of the tide,
and all our hopes of breakfasting on shore were dashed by a hasty
announcement at 5 A.M. that the tug was alongside, the mails were
rapidly being put on board of her, and that she could not wait for
passengers or anything else, because ten minutes later there would
not be water enough to float her over the bar.
“When shall we be able to get over the bar?” I asked dolefully.
“Not until the afternoon,” was the prompt and uncompromising reply,
delivered through my keyhole by the authority in charge of us. And
he proved to be quite right; but I am bound to say the time passed
more quickly than we had dared to hope or expect, for an hour later
a bold little fishing-boat made her way through the breakers and
across the bar in the teeth of wind and rain, bringing F—— on
board. He has been out here these eight months, and looks a
walking advertisement of the climate and temperature of our new
home, so absolutely healthy is his appearance. He is very cheery
about liking the place, and particularly insists on the blooming faces
and sturdy limbs I shall see belonging to the young Natalians.
Altogether, he appears thoroughly happy and contented, liking his
work, his position, everything and everybody; which is all extremely
satisfactory to hear. There is so much to tell and so much to behold
that, as G—— declares, “it is afternoon directly,” and, the signal-flag
being up, we trip our anchor once more and rush at the bar, two
quartermasters and an officer at the wheel, the pilot and captain on
the bridge, all hands on deck and on the alert, for always, under the
38. most favorable circumstances, the next five minutes hold a peril in
every second. “Stand by for spray!” sings out somebody, and we do
stand by, luckily for ourselves, for “spray” means the top of two or
three waves. The dear little Florence is as plucky as she is pretty,
and appears to shut her eyes and lower her head and go at the bar.
Scrape, scrape, scrape! “We’ve stuck! No, we haven’t! Helm hard
down! Over!” and so we are. Among the breakers, it is true, buffeted
hither and thither, knocked first to one side and then to the other;
but we keep right on, and a few more turns of the screw take us
into calm water under the green hills of the bluff. The breakers are
behind us, we have twenty fathoms of water under our keel, the
voyage is ended and over, the captain takes off his straw hat to mop
his curly head, everybody’s face loses the expression of anxiety and
rigidity it has worn these past ten minutes, and boats swarm like
locusts round the ship. The baby is passed over the ship’s side for
the last time, having been well kissed and petted and praised by
every one as he was handed from one to the other, and we row
swiftly away to the low sandy shore of the “Point.”
Only a few warehouses, or rather sheds of warehouses, are to be
seen, and a rude sort of railway-station, which appears to afford
indiscriminate shelter to boats as well as to engines. There are
leisurely trains which saunter into the town of D’Urban, a mile and a
half away, every half hour or so, but one of these “crawlers” had just
started. The sun was very hot, and we voyagers were all sadly
weary and headachy. But the best of the colonies is the prompt, self-
sacrificing kindness of old-comers to new-comers. A gentleman had
driven down in his own nice, comfortable pony-carriage, and without
a moment’s hesitation he insisted on our all getting into it and
making the best of our way to our hotel. It is too good an offer to be
refused, for the sun is hot and the babies are tired to death; so we
start, slowly enough, to plough our way through heavy sand up to
the axles. If the tide had been out we could have driven quickly
along the hard, dry sand; but we comfort ourselves by remembering
that there had been water enough on the bar, and make the best of
our way through clouds of impalpable dust to a better road, of which
39. a couple of hundred yards land us at our hotel. It looks bare and
unfurnished enough, in all conscience, but it is a new place, and
must be furnished by degrees. At all events, it is tolerably clean and
quiet, and we can wash our sunburned faces and hands, and, as
nurse says, “turn ourselves round.”
Coolies swarm in every direction, picturesque fish-and fruit-sellers
throng the verandah of the kitchen a little way off, and everything
looks bright and green and fresh, having been well washed by the
recent rains. There are still, however, several feet of dust in the
streets, for they are made of dust; and my own private impression
is, that all the water in the harbor would not suffice to lay the dust
of D’Urban for more than half an hour. With the restlessness of
people who have been cooped up on board ship for a month, we
insist, the moment it is cool enough, on being taken out for a walk.
Fortunately, the public gardens are close at hand, and we amuse
ourselves very well in them for an hour or two, but we are all
thoroughly tired and worn out, and glad to get to bed, even in
gaunt, narrow rooms on hard pallets.
The two following days were spent in looking after and collecting our
cumbrous array of boxes and baskets. Tin baths, wicker chairs and
baskets, all had to be counted and recounted, until one got weary of
the word “luggage;” but that is the penalty of drafting babies about
the world. In the intervals of the serious business of tracing No. 5 or
running No. 10 to earth in the corner of a warehouse, I made many
pleasant acquaintances and received kindest words and notes of
welcome from unknown friends. All this warm-hearted,
unconventional kindness goes far to make the stranger forget his
“own people and his father’s house,” and feel at once at home amid
strange and unfamiliar scenes. After all, “home” is portable, luckily,
and a welcoming smile and hand-clasp act as a spell to create it in
any place. We also managed, after business-hours, when it was of
no use making expeditions to wharf or custom-house after recusant
carpet-bags, to drive to the Botanic Gardens. They are extensive and
well kept, but seem principally devoted to shrubs. I was assured that
40. this is the worst time of year for flowers, as the plants have not yet
recovered from the winter drought. A dry winter and wet summer is
the correct atmospheric fashion here: in winter everything is brown
and dusty and dried up, in summer green and fragrant and well
watered. The gardens are in good order, and I rather regretted not
being able to examine them more thoroughly. Another afternoon we
drove to the Berea, a sort of suburban Richmond, where the rich
semi-tropical vegetation is cleared away in patches, and villas with
pretty pleasure-grounds are springing up in every direction. The road
winds up the luxuriantly-clothed slopes, with every here and there
lovely sea-views of the harbor, with the purpling lights of the Indian
Ocean stretching away beyond. Every villa must have an enchanting
prospect from its front door, and one can quite understand how
alluring to the merchants and business-men of D’Urban must be the
idea of getting away after office-hours, and sleeping on such high
ground in so fresh and healthy an atmosphere. And here I must say
that we Maritzburgians (I am only one in prospective) wage a
constant and deadly warfare with the D’Urbanites on the score of
the health and convenience of our respective cities. We are two
thousand feet above the sea and fifty-two miles inland, so we talk in
a pitying tone of the poor D’Urbanites as dwellers in a very hot and
unhealthy place. “Relaxing” is the word we apply to their climate
when we want to be particularly nasty, and they retaliate by
reminding us that they are ever so much older than we are (which is
an advantage in a colony), and that they are on the coast, and can
grow all manner of nice things which we cannot compass, to say
nothing of their climate being more equable than ours, and their
thunderstorms, though longer in duration, mere flashes in the pan
compared to what we in our amphitheatre of hills have to undergo
at the hands of the electric current. We never can find answer to
that taunt, and if the D’Urbanites only follow up their victory by
allusions to their abounding bananas and other fruits, their vicinity to
the shipping, and consequent facility of getting almost anything
quite easily, we are completely silenced, and it is a wonder if we
retain presence of mind enough to murmur “Flies.” On the score of
dust we are about equal, but I must in fairness confess that D’Urban
41. is a more lively and a better-looking town than Maritzburg when you
are in it, though the effect from a distance is not so good. It is very
odd how unevenly the necessaries of existence are distributed in this
country. Here at D’Urban anything hard in the way of stone is a
treasure: everything is soft and friable: sand and finest shingle, so
fine as to be mere dust, are all the available material for road-
making. I am told that later on I shall find that a cartload of sand in
Maritzburg is indeed a rare and costly thing: there we are all rock, a
sort of flaky, slaty rock underlying every place.
Our last day, or rather half day, in D’Urban was very full of
sightseeing and work. F—— was extremely anxious for me to see
the sun rise from the signal-station on the bluff, and accordingly he,
G—- and I started with the earliest dawn. We drove through the
sand again in a hired and springless Cape cart down to the Point,
got into the port-captain’s boat and rowed across a little strip of
sand at the foot of a winding path cut out of the dense vegetation
which makes the bluff such a refreshingly green headland to eyes of
wave-worn voyagers. A stalwart Kafir carried our picnic basket, with
tea and milk, bread and butter and eggs, up the hill, and it was
delightful to follow the windings of the path through beautiful
bushes bearing strange and lovely flowers, and knit together in
patches in a green tangle by the tendrils of a convolvulus or
clematis, or sort of wild passion-flower, whose blossoms were
opening to the fresh morning air. It was a cool but misty morning,
and though we got to our destination in ample time, there was never
any sunrise at all to be seen. In fact, the sun steadily declined to get
up the whole day, so far as I knew, for the sea looked gray and
solemn and sleepy, and the land kept its drowsy mantle of haze over
its flat shore; which haze thickened and deepened into a Scotch mist
as the morning wore on. We returned by the leisurely railway—a
railway so calm and stately in its method of progression that it is not
at all unusual to see a passenger step calmly out of the train when it
is at its fullest speed of crawl, and wave his hand to his companions
as he disappears down the by-path leading to his little home. The
passengers are conveyed at a uniform rate of sixpence a head,
42. which sixpence is collected promiscuously by a small boy at odd
moments during the journey. There are no nice distinctions of class,
either, for we all travel amicably together in compartments which are
a judicious mixture of a third-class carriage and a cattle-truck. Of
course, wood is the only fuel used, and that but sparingly, for it is
exceedingly costly.
There was still much to be done by the afternoon—many visitors to
receive, notes to write and packages to arrange, for our traveling of
these fifty-two miles spreads itself over a good many hours, as you
will see. About three o’clock the government mule-wagon came to
the door. It may truly and literally be described as “stopping the
way,” for not only is the wagon itself a huge and cumbrous machine,
but it is drawn by eight mules in pairs, and driven by a couple of
black drivers. I say “driven by a couple of drivers,” because the
driving was evidently an affair of copartnership: one held the reins—
such elaborate reins as they were! a confused tangle of leather—and
the other had the care of two or three whips of differing lengths.
The drivers were both jet black—not Kafirs, but Cape blacks—
descendants of the old slaves taken by the Dutch. They appeared to
be great friends, these two, and took earnest counsel together at
every rut and drain and steep pinch of the road, which stretched
away, over hill and dale, before us, a broad red track, with high
green hedges on either hand. Although the rain had not yet fallen
long or heavily, the ditches were all running freely with red, muddy
water, and the dust had already begun to cake itself into a sticky,
pasty red clay. The wagon was shut in by curtains at the back and
sides, and could hold eight passengers easily. Luckily for the poor
mules, however, we were only five grown-up people, including the
drivers. The road was extremely pretty, and the town looked very
picturesque as we gradually rose above it and looked down on it and
the harbor together. Of a fine, clear afternoon it would have been
still nicer, though I was much congratulated on the falling rain on
account of the absence of its alternative—dust. Still, it was possible
to have too much of a good thing, and by the time we reached Pine
Town, only fourteen miles away, the heavy roads were beginning to
43. tell on the poor mules, and the chill damp of the closing evening
made us all only too thankful to get under the shelter of a roadside
inn (or hotel, as they are called here), which was snug and bright
and comfortable enough to be a credit to any colony. It seemed the
most natural thing in the world to be told that this inn was not only
a favorite place for people to come out to from D’Urban to spend
their holiday time in fine weather (there is a pretty little church in
the village hard by), but also that it was quite de rigueur for all
honeymoons to be spent amid its pretty scenery.
A steady downpour of rain all through the night made our early start
next day an affair of doubt and discouragement and dismal
prophecy; but we persevered, and accomplished another long stage
through a cold persistent drizzle before reaching an inn, where we
enjoyed simply the best breakfast I ever tasted, or at all events the
best I have tasted in Natal. The mules were also unharnessed, and
after taking, each, a good roll on the damp grass, turned out in the
drizzling rain for a rest and a nibble until their more substantial
repast was ready. The rain cleared up from time to time, but an
occasional heavy shower warned us that the weather was still sulky.
It was in much better heart and spirits, however, that we made a
second start about eleven o’clock, and struggled on through heavy
roads up and down weary hills, slipping here, sliding there, and
threatening to stick everywhere. Our next stage was to a place
where the only available shelter was a filthy inn, at which we
lingered as short a time as practicable—only long enough, in fact, to
feed the mules—and then, with every prospect of a finer afternoon,
set out once more on the last and longest stage of our journey. All
the way the road has been very beautiful, in spite of the shrouding
mist, especially at the Inchanga Pass, where round the shoulder of
the hill as fair a prospect of curved green hills, dotted with clusters
of timber exactly like an English park, of distant ranges rising in
softly-rounded outlines, with deep violet shadows in the clefts and
pale green lights on the slopes, stretches before you as the heart of
painter could desire. Nestling out of sight amid this rich pasture-land
are the kraals of a large Kafir location, and no one can say that
44. these, the children of the soil, have not secured one of the most
favored spots. To me it all looked like a fair mirage. I am already sick
of beholding all this lovely country lying around, and yet of being
told that food and fuel are almost at famine-prices. People say, “Oh,
but you should see it in winter. Now it is green, and there is plenty
of feed on it, but three months ago no grass-eating creature could
have picked up a living on all the country-side. It is all as brown and
bare as parchment for half the year. This is the spring.” Can you not
imagine how provoking it is to hear such statements made by old
settlers, who know the place only too well, and to find out that all
the radiant beauty which greets the traveler’s eye is illusive, for in
many places there are miles and miles without a drop of water for
the flock and herds; consequently, there are no means of transport
for all this fuel until the days of railways? Besides which, through
Natal lies the great highway to the Diamond Fields, the Transvaal
and the Free States, and all the opening-up country beyond; so it is
more profitable to drive a wagon than to till a farm. Every beast with
four legs is wanted to drag building materials or provisions. The
supply of beef becomes daily more precarious and costly, for the
oxen are all “treking,” and one hears of nothing but diseases among
animals—“horse sickness,” pleuro-pneumonia, fowl sickness (I feel it
an impertinence for the poultry to presume to be ill), and even dogs
set up a peculiar and fatal sort of distemper among themselves.
But to return to the last hours of our journey. The mules struggle
bravely along, though their ears are beginning to flap about any
way, instead of being held straight and sharply pricked forward, and
the encouraging cries of “Pull up, Capting! now then, Blue-bok, hi!”
become more and more frequent: the driver in charge of the whips
is less nice in his choice of a scourge with which to urge on the
patient animals, and whacks them soundly with whichever comes
first. The children have long ago wearied of the confinement and
darkness of the back seats of the hooded vehicle; we are all black
and blue from jolting in and out of deep holes hidden by mud which
occur at every yard; but still our flagging spirits keep pretty good, for
our little Table Mountain has been left behind, whilst before us,
45. leaning up in one corner of an amphitheatre of hills, are the trees
which mark where Maritzburg nestles. The mules see it too, and,
sniffing their stables afar off, jog along faster. Only one more rise to
pull up: we turn a little off the high-road, and there, amid a young
plantation of trees, with roses, honeysuckle and passion-flowers
climbing up the posts of the wide verandah, a fair and enchanting
prospect lying at our feet, stands our new home, with its broad red
tiled roof stretching out a friendly welcome to the tired, belated
travelers.
47. PART III.
Maritzburg, November, 1875.
The weather at the beginning of this month was lovely and the
climate perfection, but now (I am writing on its last day) it is getting
very hot and trying. If ever people might stand excused for talking
about the weather when they meet, it is we Natalians, for, especially
at this time of year, it varies from hour to hour. All along the coast
one hears of terrible buffeting and knocking about among the
shipping in the open roadsteads which have to do duty for harbors in
these parts; and it was only a few days ago that the lifeboat, with
the English mail on board, capsized in crossing the bar at D’Urban.
The telegram was—as telegrams always are—terrifying in its
vagueness, and spoke of the mail-bags as “floating about.” When
one remembers the vast size of the breakers on which this floating
would take place, it sounded hopeless for our letters. They turned
up, however, a few days later—in a pulpy state, it is true, but quite
readable, though the envelopes were curiously blended and
engrafted upon the letters inside—so much so that they required to
be taken together, for it was impossible to separate them. I had
recourse to the expedient of spreading my letters on a dry towel and
draining them before attempting to dissever the leaves. Still, we
were all only too thankful to get our correspondence in any shape or
form, for precious beyond the power of words to express are home-
letters to us, so far away from home.
But to return to our weather. At first it was simply perfect. Bright hot
days—not too hot, for a light breeze tempered even the midday heat
—and crisp, bracing nights succeeded each other during the first
fortnight. The country looked exquisitely green in its luxuriant spring
48. tints over hill and dale, and the rich red clay soil made a splendid
contrast on road and track with the brilliant green on either hand.
Still, people looked anxiously for more rain, declaring that not half
enough had fallen to fill tanks or “shuits” (as the ditches are called),
and it took four days of continuous downpour to satisfy these thirsty
souls even for the moment. Toward the middle of the month the
atmosphere became more oppressive and clouds began to come up
in thick masses all round the horizon, and gradually spread
themselves over the whole sky. The day before the heaviest rain,
though not particularly oppressive, was remarkable for the way in
which all manner of animals tried to get under shelter at nightfall.
The verandah was full of big frogs: if a door remained open for a
moment they hopped in, and then cried like trapped birds when they
found themselves in a corner. As for the winged creatures, it was
something wonderful the numbers in which they flew in at the
windows wherever a light attracted them. I was busy writing English
letters that evening: I declare the cockroaches fairly drove me away
from the table by the mad way in which they flung themselves into
my ink-bottle, whilst the smell of singed moths at the other lamp
was quite overpowering. Well, after this came rain indeed—not rain
according to English ideas, but a tropical deluge, as many inches
falling in a few hours as would fill your rain-gauges for months. I
believe my conduct was very absurd that first rainy night. The little
house had just been newly papered, and as the ceiling was not one
to inspire confidence, consisting as it did merely of boards roughly
joined together and painted white, through which and through the
tiles beyond the sky could be seen quite plainly, I suffered the
gravest doubts about the water getting in and spoiling my pretty
new paper. Accordingly, whenever any burst of rain came heavier
than its immediate predecessor, I jumped out of bed in a perfect
agony of mind, and roamed, candle in hand, all over the house to
see if I could not detect a leak anywhere. But the unpromising-
looking roof and ceiling stood the test bravely, and not a drop of all
that descending downpour found its way to my new walls.
49. By the way, I must describe the house to you, remarking, first of all,
that architecture, so far as my observation extends, is at its lowest
ebb in South Africa. I have not seen a single pretty building of any
sort or kind since I arrived, although in these small houses it would
be so easy to break by gable and porch the severe simplicity of the
unvarying straight line in which they are built. Whitewashed outer
walls with a zinc roof are not uncommon, and they make a bald and
hideous combination until kindly, luxuriant Nature has had time to
step in and cover up man’s ugly handiwork with her festoons of
roses and passion-flowers. Most of the houses have, fortunately, red-
tiled roofs, which are not so ugly, and mine is among the number. It
is so squat and square, however, that, as our landlord happens to be
the chief baker of Maritzburg, it has been proposed to christen it
“Cottage Loaf,” but this idea requires consideration on account of the
baker’s feelings. In the mean time, it is known briefly as “Smith’s,”
that being the landlord’s name. It has, as all the houses here have, a
broad projecting roof extending over a wide verandah. Within are
four small rooms, two on either side of a narrow passage which runs
from one end to the other. By a happy afterthought, a kitchen has
been added beyond this extremely simple ground-plan, and on the
opposite side a corresponding projection which closely resembles a
packing-case, and which has been painted a bright blue inside and
out. This is the dining-room, and evidently requires to be severely
handled before its present crude and glaring tints can be at all toned
down. At a little distance stands the stable, saddle-room, etc., and a
good bedroom for English servants, and beyond that, again, among
large clumps of rose-bushes, a native hut. It came up here half built
—that is, the frame was partly put together elsewhere—and it
resembled a huge crinoline more than anything else in its original
state. Since that, however, it has been made more secure by extra
pales of bamboo, each tied in its place with infinite trouble and
patience by a knot every inch or two. The final stage consisted of
careful thatching with thick bundles of grass laid on the framework,
and secured by long ropes of grass binding the whole together. The
door is the very smallest opening imaginable, and inside it is of
course pitch dark. All this labor was performed by stalwart Kafir
50. women, one of whom, a fearfully repulsive female, informed my
cook that she had just been bought back by her original husband.
Stress of circumstances had obliged him to sell her, and she had
been bought by three other husband-masters since then, but was
now resold, a bargain, to her first owner, whom, she declared, she
preferred to any of the others. But few as are these rooms, they yet
are watertight—which is a great point out here—and the house,
being built of large, awkward blocks of stone, is cool and shady.
When I have arranged things a little, it will be quite comfortable and
pretty; and I defy any one to wish for a more exquisite view than
can be seen from any corner of the verandah. We are on the brow of
a hill which slopes gently down to the hollow wherein nestles the
picturesque little town, or rather village, of Maritzburg. The
intervening distance of a mile or so conceals the real ugliness and
monotony of its straight streets, and hides all architectural
shortcomings. The clock-tower, for instance, is quite a feature in the
landscape, and from here one cannot perceive that the clock does
not go. Nothing can be prettier than the effect of the red-tiled roofs
and white walls peeping out from among thick clumps of trees,
whilst beyond the ground rises again to low hills with deep purple
fissures and clefts in their green sides. It is only a couple of years
since this little house was built and the garden laid out, and yet the
shrubs and trees are as big as if half a dozen years had passed over
their leafy heads. As for the roses, I never saw anything like the way
they flourish at their own sweet will. Scarcely a leaf is to be seen on
the ugly straggling tree—nothing but masses of roses of every tint
and kind and old-fashioned variety. The utmost I can do in the way
of gathering daily basketsful appears only in the light of judicious
pruning, and next day a dozen blossoms have burst forth to supply
the place of each theft of mine. And there is such a variety of trees!
Oaks and bamboos, blue gums and deodars, seem to flourish equally
well within a yard or two of each other, and the more distant flower-
beds are filled with an odd mixture of dahlias and daturas, white
fleur-de-lis and bushy geraniums, scarlet euphorbias and verbenas.
But the weeds! They are a chronic eyesore and grief to every
gardener. On path and grass-plat, flower-bed and border, they flaunt
51. and flourish. “Jack,” the Zulu refugee, wages a feeble and totally
inadequate warfare against them with a crooked hoe, but he is only
a quarter in earnest, and stops to groan and take snuff so often that
the result is that our garden is precisely in the condition of the
garden of the sluggard, gate and all. This hingeless condition of the
gate, however, is, I must in fairness state, neither Jack’s nor our
fault. It is a new gate, but no one will come out from the town to
hang it. That is my standing grievance. Because we live about a mile
from the town it is next to impossible to get anything done. The
town itself is one of the shabbiest assemblages of dwellings I have
ever seen in a colony. It is not to be named on the same day with
Christchurch, the capital of Canterbury, New Zealand, which ten
years ago was decently paved and well lighted by gas. Poor sleepy
Maritzburg consists now, at more than forty years of age
(Christchurch is not twenty-five yet), of a few straight, wide, grass-
grown streets, which are only picturesque at a little distance on
account of their having trees on each side. On particularly dark
nights a dozen oil-lamps standing at long intervals apart are lighted,
but when it is even moderately starlight these aids to finding one’s
way about are prudently dispensed with. There is not a single
handsome and hardly a decent building in the whole place. The
streets, as I saw them after rain, are veritable sloughs of despond,
but they are capable of being changed by dry weather into deserts
of dust. It is true, I have only been as yet twice down to the town,
but on both visits it reminded me more of the sleepy villages in
Washington Irving’s stories than of a smart, modern, go-ahead
colonial “city.” There are some fairly good shops, but they make no
show outside, and within the prices of most of the articles sold are
nearly double the same things would bring either at Melbourne or at
Christchurch. As D’Urban is barely a month away from London in
point of communication, and New Zealand (when I knew it) nearly
treble the distance and time, this is a great puzzle to me.
A certain air of quaint interest and life is given to the otherwise
desolate streets by the groups of Kafirs and the teams of wagons
which bring fuel and forage into the town every day. Twenty bullocks
52. drag these ponderous contrivances—bullocks so lean that one
wonders how they have strength to carry their wide-spreading horns
aloft; bullocks of a stupidity and obstinacy unparalleled in the natural
history of horned beasts. At their head walks a Kafir lad called a
“forelooper,” who tugs at a rope fastened to the horns of the leading
oxen, and in moments of general confusion invariably seems to pull
the wrong string and get the whole team into an inextricable tangle
of horns and yokes. Sometimes of a quiet Sunday morning these
teams and wagons I see “out-spanned” on the green slopes around
Maritzburg, making a picturesque addition to the sylvan scenery.
Near each wagon a light wreath of smoke steals up into the summer
air, marking where some preparation of “mealies” is on foot, and the
groups of grazing oxen—“spans,” as each team is called—give the
animation of animal life which I miss so sadly at every turn in this
part of the world.
In Maritzburg itself I only noticed two buildings which made the least
effect. One is the government house, standing in a nice garden and
boasting of a rather pretty porch, but otherwise reminding one—
except for the sentinel on duty—of a quiet country rectory: the other
is a small block comprising the public offices. The original idea of
this square building must have come from a model dairy. But the
crowning absurdity of the place is the office of the colonial secretary,
which stands nearly opposite. I am told that inside it is tolerably
comfortable, being the remains of an old Dutch building: outside, it
can only be compared to a dilapidated barn on a bankrupt farm, and
when it was first pointed out to me I had great difficulty,
remembering similar buildings in other colonies, in believing it was a
public office.
The native police look very smart and shiny in their white suits, and
must be objects of envy to their black brethren on account of their
“knobkerries,” the knobbed sticks which they alone are permitted to
carry officially in their hands. The native loves a stick, and as he is
forbidden to carry either an assegai—which is a very formidable
weapon indeed—or even a knobkerry, only one degree less
53. dangerous, he consoles himself with a wand or switch in case of
coming across a snake. You never see a Kafir without something of
the sort in his hand: if he is not twirling a light stick, then he has a
sort of rude reed pipe from which he extracts sharp and tuneless
sounds. As a race, the Kafirs make the effect of possessing a fine
physique: they walk with an erect bearing and a light step, but in
true leisurely savage fashion. I have seen the black race in four
different quarters of the globe, and I never saw one single individual
move quickly of his own free will. We must bear in mind, however,
that it is a new and altogether revolutionary idea to a Kafir that he
should do any work at all. Work is for women—war or idleness for
men; consequently, their fixed idea is to do as little as they can; and
no Kafir will work after he has earned money enough to buy a
sufficient number of wives who will work for him. “Charlie,” our
groom—who is, by the way, a very fine gentleman and speaks
“Ingeliss” after a strange fashion of his own—only condescends to
work until he can purchase a wife. Unfortunately, the damsel whom
he prefers is a costly article, and her parents demand a cow, a kettle
and a native hut as the price of her hand—or hands, rather—so
Charlie grunts and groans through about as much daily work as an
English boy of twelve years old could manage easily. He is a very
amusing character, being exceedingly proud, and will only obey his
own master, whom he calls his great inkosi or chief. He is always
lamenting the advent of the inkosi-casa, or chieftainess, and the
piccaninnies and their following, especially the “vaiter,” whom he
detests. In his way, Charlie is a wag, and it is as good as a play to
see his pretence of stupidity when the “vaiter” or French butler
desires him to go and eat “sa paniche.” Charlie understands perfectly
that he is told to go and get his breakfast of mealy porridge, but he
won’t admit that it is to be called “paniche,” preferring his own word
“scoff;” so he shakes his head violently and says, “Nay, nay,
paniche.” Then, with many nods, “Scoff, ja;” and so in this strange
gibberish of three languages he and the Frenchman carry on quite a
pretty quarrel. Charlie also “mocks himself” of the other servants, I
am informed, and asserts that he is the “indema” or headman. He
freely boxes the ears of Jack, the Zulu refugee—poor Jack, who fled
54. from his own country, next door, the other day, and arrived here clad
in only a short flap made of three bucks’ tails. That is only a month
ago, and “Jack” is already quite a petit maître about his clothes. He
ordinarily wears a suit of knickerbockers and a shirt of blue check
bound with red, and a string of beads round his neck, but he cries
like a baby if he tears his clothes, or still worse if the color of the red
braid washes out. At first he hated civilized garments, even when
they were only two in number, and begged to be allowed to assume
a sack with holes for the arms, which is the Kafir compromise when
near a town between clothes and flaps made of the tails of wild
beasts or strips of hide. But he soon came to delight in them, and is
now always begging for “something to wear.”
I confess I am sorry for Jack. He is the kitchen-boy, and is learning
with much pains and difficulty the wrong language. My cook is also
French, and, naturally, all that Jack learns is French, and not English.
Imagine poor Jack’s dismay when, after his three years’
apprenticeship to us is ended, he seeks perhaps to better himself,
and finds that no one except madame can understand him! Most of
their dialogues are carried on by pantomime and the incessant use,
in differing tones of voice, of the word “Ja.” Jack is a big, loutish
young man, but very ugly and feeble, and apparently under the
impression that he is perpetually “wanted” to answer for the little
indiscretion, whatever it was, on account of which he was forced to
flee over the border. He is timid and scared to the last degree, and
abjectly anxious to please if it does not entail too much exertion. He
is, as it were, apprenticed to us for three years. We are bound to
feed and clothe and doctor him, and he is to work for us, in his own
lazy fashion, for small wages. The first time Jack broke a plate his
terror and despair were quite edifying to behold. Madame called him
a “maladroit” on the spot. Jack learned this word, and after his work
was over seated himself gravely on the ground with the fragments of
the plate, which he tried to join together, but gave up the attempt at
last, announcing in his own tongue that it was “dead.” After a little
consideration he said slowly, several times, “Maldraw, ja,” and hit
himself a good thump at each “ja.” Now, I grieve to say, Jack breaks
55. plates, dishes and cups with a perfectly easy and unembarrassed
conscience, and is already far too civilized to care in the least for his
misfortunes in that line. Whenever a fowl is killed—and I came upon
Jack slowly putting one to death the other day with a pair of nail-
scissors—he possesses himself of a small store of feathers, which he
wears tastefully placed over his left ear. A gay ribbon, worn like a
bandeau across the forehead, is what he really loves. Jack is very
proud of a tawdry ribbon of many colors with a golden ground which
I found for him the other day, only he never can make up his mind
where to wear it; and I often come upon him sitting in the shade
with the ribbon in his hands, gravely considering the question.
The Pickle and plague of the establishment, however, is the boy
Tom, a grinning young savage fresh from his kraal, up to any
amount of mischief, who in an evil hour has been engaged as the
baby’s body-servant. I cannot trust him with the child out of my
sight for a moment, for he “snuffs” enormously, and smokes coarse
tobacco out of a cow’s horn, and is anxious to teach the baby both
these accomplishments. Tom wears his snuff-box—which is a brass
cylinder a couple of inches long—in either ear impartially, there
being huge slits in the cartilage for the purpose, and the baby never
rests till he gets possession of it and sneezes himself nearly into fits.
Tom likes nursing Baby immensely, and croons to him in a strange
buzzing way which lulls him to sleep invariably. He is very anxious,
however, to acquire some words of English, and I was much startled
the other day to hear in the verandah my own voice saying, “What is
it, dear?” over and over again. This phrase proceeded from Tom,
who kept on repeating it, parrot-fashion—an exact imitation, but
with no idea of its meaning. I had heard the baby whimpering a little
time before, and Tom had remarked that these four words produced
the happiest effect in restoring good-humor; so he learned them,
accent and all, on the spot, and used them as a spell or charm on
the next opportunity. I think even the poor baby was puzzled. But
one cannot feel sure of what Tom will do next. A few evenings ago I
trusted him to wheel the perambulator about the garden-paths, but,
becoming anxious in a very few minutes to know what he was
56. about, I went to look for him. I found him grinning in high glee,
watching the baby’s efforts at cutting his teeth on a live young bird.
Master Tom had spied a nest, climbed the tree, and brought down
the poor little bird, which he presented to the child, who instantly
put it into his mouth. When I arrived on the scene Baby’s mouth was
full of feathers, over which he was making a very disgusted face,
and the unhappy bird was nearly dead of fright and squeezing,
whilst Tom was in such convulsions of laughter that I nearly boxed
his ears. He showed me by signs how Baby insisted on sucking the
bird’s head, and conveyed his intense amusement at the idea. I
made Master Tom climb the tree instantly and put the poor little
half-dead creature back into its nest, and sent for Charlie to explain
to him he should have no sugar—the only punishment Tom cares
about—for two days. I often think, however, that I must try and find
another penalty, for when Tom’s allowance of sugar is stopped he
“requisitions” that of every one else, and so gets rather more than
usual. He is immensely proud of the brass chin-strap of an old
artillery bushy which has been given to him. He used to wear it
across his forehead in the favorite Kafir fashion, but as the baby
always made it his first business to pull this shining strap down over
Tom’s eyes, and eventually over Tom’s mouth, it has been
transferred to his neck.
These Kafir-lads make excellent nurse-boys generally, and English
children are very fond of them. Nurse-girls are rare, as the Kafir
women begin their lives of toil so early that they are never very
handy or gentle in a house, and boys are easier to train as servants.
I heard to-day, however, of an excellent Kafir nursemaid who was
the daughter of a chief, and whose only drawback was the size of
her family. She was actually and truly one of eighty brothers and
sisters, her father being a rich man with twenty-five wives. That
simply means that he had twenty-five devoted slaves, who worked
morning, noon and night for him in field and mealy-patch without
wages. Jack the Zulu wanted to be nurse-boy dreadfully, and used to
follow Nurse about with a towel rolled up into a bundle, and another
towel arranged as drapery, dandling an imaginary baby on his arm,
57. saying plaintively, “Piccaninny, piccaninny!” This Nurse translated to
mean that he was an experienced nurse-boy, and had taken care of
a baby in his own country, but as I had no confidence in maladroit
Jack, who chanced to be very deaf besides, he was ruthlessly
relegated to his pots and pans.
It is very curious to see the cast-off clothes of all the armies of
Europe finding their way hither. The natives of South Africa prefer an
old uniform coat or tunic to any other covering, and the effect of a
short scarlet garment when worn with bare legs is irresistibly droll.
The apparently inexhaustible supply of old-fashioned English coatees
with their worsted epaulettes is just coming to an end, and being
succeeded by ragged red tunics, franc-tireurs’ brownish-green
jackets and much-worn Prussian gray coats. Kafir-Land may be
looked upon as the old-clothes shop of all the fighting world, for
sooner or later every cast-off scrap of soldier’s clothing drifts toward
it. Charlie prides himself much upon the possession of an old gray
great-coat, so patched and faded that it may well have been one of
those which toiled up the slopes of Inkerman that rainy Sunday
morning twenty years ago; whilst scampish Tom got well chaffed the
other day for suddenly making his appearance clad in a stained red
tunic with buff collar and cuffs, and the number of the old “dirty
Half-hundred” in tarnished metal on the shoulder-scales. “Sir
Garnet,” cried Charlie the witty, whilst Jack affected to prostrate
himself before the grinning imp, exclaiming, “O great inkosi!”
Charlie is angry with me just now, and looks most reproachfully my
way on all occasions. The cause is that he was sweeping away
sundry huge spiders’ webs from the roof of the verandah (the work
of a single night) when I heard him coughing frightfully. I gave him
some lozenges, saying, “Do your cough good, Charlie.” Charlie
received them in both hands held like a cup, the highest form of
Kafir gratitude, and gulped them all down on the spot. Next day I
heard the same dreadful cough, and told F—— to give him some
more lozenges. But Charlie would have none of them, alleging he
58. “eats plenty tomorrow’s yesterday, and dey no good at all;” and he
evidently despises me and my remedies.
If only there were no hot winds! But the constant changes are so
trying and so sudden. Sometimes we have a hot, scorching gale all
day, drying and parching one’s very skin up, and shriveling one’s
lovely roses like the blast from a furnace: then in the afternoon a
dark cloud sails suddenly up from behind the hills to the west. It is
over the house before one knows it is coming: a loud clap of thunder
shakes the very ground beneath one’s feet, others follow rapidly, and
a thunderstorm bewilders one for some ten minutes or so. A few
drops of cold rain fall to the sound of the distant thunder, now rolling
away eastward, which yet “struggles and howls at fits.” It is not
always distant, but we have not yet seen a real thunderstorm; only a
few of these short, sudden electrical disturbances, which come and
go more like explosions than anything else. A few days ago there
was a duststorm which had a very curious effect as we looked down
upon it from this hill. All along the roads one could watch the dust
being caught up, as it were, and whirled along in dense clouds,
whilst the poor little town itself was absolutely blotted out by the
blinding masses of fine powder. For half an hour or so we could
afford to watch and smile at our neighbors’ plight, but soon we had
to flee for shelter ourselves within the house, for a furious hot gale
drove heavily up behind the dust and nearly blew us away
altogether. Still, there was no thunderstorm, though we quite wished
for one to cool the air and refresh the parched and burnt-up grass
and flowers. Such afternoons are generally pretty sure to be
succeeded by a cold night, and perhaps a cold, damp morning; and
one can already understand that these alternations during the
summer months are apt to produce dysentery among young
children. I hear just now of a good many such cases among babies.
I have been so exceedingly busy this month packing, arranging and
settling that there has been but little time for going about and
seeing the rather pretty environs of Maritzburg; besides which, the
weather is dead against excursions, changing as it does to rain or
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