Chapter Thirty One.
After remaining a few weeks in King Williamstown we had a longing to see the ocean, and accordingly, one evening, took the train for East London, two hours distant by rail, and fell asleep that night to the sound of the waves rolling up on the shore. The next day we went down the steep hill-side to the beach, and played with the pebbles and pretty sea-shells, as happily as children with their wooden spades and pails. When the tide is out the rocks are strewn with wrecks, one of which we climbed upon, and let the spray of the waves dash upon us.
East London is rather a misnomer, for by that term people mean Panmure, which is built on the opposite bank of the Buffalo to the old town of East London; but Panmure, having grown up and eclipsed its elder brother, the old name seems to cling to it, and East London, the larger and more important town of the two, is indicated. It is very picturesquely situated. The Buffalo River finds its way to the sea at this point, between excessively high and bountifully wooded banks. East London proper is erected on the western point of the junction of the river with the ocean, while Panmure looks down upon it from the higher elevation of the eastern bank.
The town is rather scattered, but rejoices in some of the most energetic and pushing colonists in the country. They are trying hard to bring their town into the front rank of colonial towns, and are spending vast sums of money in the attempt to make a harbour of the mouth of the river, at present barred with sand. A breakwater was in course of erection by convict labour, which is confidently expected to do great things for the port, but so far there is no communication between the shipping and the shore but by means of lighters and steam launches.
There are three or four highly prosperous rowing clubs in Panmure, and our hotel proprietor, being a member of one, we were enabled to spend several delightful days in exploring the romantic banks and creeks of the Buffalo, which here resembles our own Hudson in picturesque loveliness. We remained three very pleasant weeks in East London enjoying the sea, and, after debating the question, we decided to go to Natal.
Our thoughts had been turned toward that colony for some time, as we had heard much of the beauty of the country. It is necessary to make the voyage by sea, for, although Natal touches the Cape Colony along the boundary line of one hundred and fifty miles or more, there is little or no regular land communication, the Cape districts adjacent to Natal being still peopled by natives as yet but little removed from barbarism. There is no highway from one colony to the other, and communication is almost entirely by sea.
The port of East London bears the unenviable distinction of being for more than half the days in the year almost unapproachable. The roadstead is quite open, there being no bay of any kind, and the coast facing southeast, it is exposed to the full fury of the worst gales known in these latitudes, the South-easters. On a hot summer’s day we boarded the tender which was to take us only to the steamer. We were warned by the residents that it was rough outside the “bar,” but we could scarcely believe them as we looked out on the placid waters of the estuary. We were soon convinced, however, for as soon as the little steamboat began to feel the swell which at all times surges over the sandy bar, she tossed and danced about in a manner which made us wish we had not started for Natal.
But we were in for it now, so covering ourselves completely with our rubber coats we did not fear the spray and surf that dashed completely over our little vessel as she blustered and fought her way, inch by inch, against the mighty rollers that seemed to rear up to drive us back. After several minutes of this we cleared the bubbling surf that boiled over the bar, and found ourselves in the long rolling swell of a heavy sea, which, if as dangerous, was not quite so unpleasant. We arrived alongside the steamer, which appeared to us, on our erratic little craft, to be as steady as a rock, so large and stately did she seem. We were told we should have to be hoisted on board in a basket, as there was no possibility of our approaching near enough to the vessel’s side to get up by the usual companion ladder.
A huge basket was slung down, suspended from the immense derrick on the ship’s deck, and into this we were unceremoniously packed, two at a time. Then we were quickly hauled up, our dignity suffering in the way we were “dumped” down on the deck like jugs of molasses, or Falstaff going to the wash. We smoothed our ruffled plumage with the consolation that we were “doing” South Africa, though it seemed to us at the time that the reverse was the case.
It was too dark when we left East London to see anything of the coast, but on coming on deck the next morning we found the scenery before our eyes. The coast from west to north-east is very little broken, and presents a uniform rocky shore, but the scenery is really beautiful. Hundreds of small streams, and one or two larger ones, empty themselves into the sea on the Kafrarian coast, and the kloofs through which they find their way to the ocean are veritable fairy glens in loveliness. The steamer here kept close to the shore, so everything was seen with distinctness.
The wonderful clearness of the atmosphere made every bold wrinkle on the face of the cliffs, the direction of the water courses, every curve of the kloof to be clearly discovered. One feature of the country with which we had become familiar was here conspicuous by its absence. No mountains of great altitude could be seen, the great ranges which run right round the coast line with one unbroken wall here receding so far from the sea as to be beyond the reach of our vision even in that rich and brilliant light. We passed Mazeppa Bay, the scene of so many wrecks that it has become famous, the great Kei River and many points of historical interest.
The captain told us that this entire coast was for a long time laid down on the charts nearly a degree too far west, which was, no doubt, the cause of the numerous marine disasters that have occurred among its breakers. Next day we sighted the mouth of the Saint John’s River, of which place hopes are entertained that it will one day be made a practicable harbour. There is a small settlement here, and a station for the mounted police. From here we began to see many charming houses dotted along the shores.
The beauty of the country has tempted a great number of Europeans to pitch their tents here. Major-General Bissett, who has written several interesting histories of the Kafir wars, has built himself a house not far from Saint John’s, which, with the surrounding estate, has every appearance of being a delightful spot to retire to from the busy world.
It was a Christmas day, 1497, that the great Portuguese voyager, Vasco da Gama, first sighted the headlands and bluffs of Natal, and it was on Christmas day nearly four hundred years after (it is strange how history repeats itself) that we Yankee girls landed in Durban!
