Reminiscences of a South African Pioneer

by W. C. Scully

CHAPTER II

Improved health—Jimmy Kinsella—Veld food—I abscond—Father Healy on conversion—Father O'Dwyer and his whip—Confession—Construction of a volcano—The Fenian outbreak—Departure for South Africa—The tuneful soldier—Chess at sea—Madeira A gale—The Asia

My health having improved in my eleventh year, I was able to extend the range of my walks abroad. The surrounding country was full of interest; the scenery was lovely. The region through which the boundary common to Wicklow and Dublin runs is full of beauty spots, and the deeper one penetrates into Wicklow, the more delightful is the landscape. The Dargle, Powerscourt Waterfall, Bray Head, and the Sugarloaf Mountains were all within rambling distance of Springfield. A few miles away, on the Dublin side, were various ruins full of rusting machinery. These had been the sites of paper and flax mills, shut down owing to England's fiscal policy of the early nineteenth century days. Lead-smelting and shot-making was carried on at a spot a few miles to the eastward. It was a great delight to see the melted metal poured through a sieve at the top of a tower and raining down into an excavation with water at the bottom. I remember the manager of the works once showing me an immense ingot of silver. It was lying on a table in his office between two flannel shirts, the edges of which were just able to meet over its sides. There was a small lake and a trout stream close to the works; of these I had the run.

Many spots in the neighborhood of Springfield had legends attached to them. I remember one large rock in the Scalp which was known as the "Soggarth's Stone." It was said that a priest had been killed there in "ninety-eight." At a spot where two roads crossed, on the way to Enniskerry, could still be traced the outlines of the graves of several suicides; one of these had the remains of a very old oaken stake sticking diagonally from it. Every storied spot fascinated me, but although many of my friends among the peasantry tried hard to make me believe in the fairies or, as they called them, "the good people," I never placed the slightest credence in what was said on the subject.

I had a faithful henchman in Jimmy Kinsella, a lad of about my own age, who belonged to Springfield. Jimmy was the only one of my circle of acquaintances who refrained from persecuting me concerning the "burial agency" episode. Should these lines ever meet his eye, he will know that I still cherish grateful memories of his chivalrous forbearance. But I fear poor Jimmy could never have learnt to read; he was one of a sorely poverty-stricken family of about a dozen children. His ordinary costume consisted of a very ragged coat and breeches, the latter not quite reaching to his knees, and usually held at their proper altitude by a "suggan," or rope of hay. Jimmy was the only well-fleshed member of his family, and for being thus distinguished he had me to thank.

I must, as a child, have had the forager's instinct very strongly developed, for I very early noted the amount of more or less appetizing food lying about ungleaned in what, in South Africa, we would call "the veld." For instance, there was a large grove of hazel-trees from which vast stores of nuts could be collected in the season. This nut-grove was still standing when I visited Springfield a few years ago. These nuts we used to gather and, like the squirrels, hoard in various places.

The seasons brought forth other acceptable items of food. Mushrooms grew plentifully in the grassy hollows near the lake, and wild strawberries were to be found on almost every southern slope. There was one small area where the strawberries grew in wonderful profusion. A few years since I revisited this spot in spring. I found the fruit as plentiful as ever, but somehow the flavor of the strawberry did not seem to be so rich as it was five-and-forty years ago. Blackberries were abundant on the edge of every thicket; on the heights of the Scalp, over which we poached without restraint, haws and sloes grew plentifully. It must not be inferred that Jimmy and I did not lay the garden under levy, for we did. Apples, pears, gooseberries, and such common fruits, we helped ourselves to freely, but I had given my word not to touch any of the rare varieties such as plums and greengages. These were trained, vine-wise, along the walls.

But we seldom lacked animal food, for we could always snare rabbits or, except in the depths of winter, catch fish. The lake was full of perch, roach, and eels; every mountain stream contained trout. On rare occasions we would find Lord Powerscourt's pheasants in our snares. I am sorry to say that in winter we would eat blackbirds, which we caught in a crib made of elder-rods. This I always knew to be a disgraceful thing to do, and it was only when very hungry indeed that such a crime was committed.

Tired of the ways of society, Jimmy and I determined to have done with civilization, so we built, with infinite pains and some measure of skill, a large hut in the deepest and loneliest part of the larch-forest. Larch-boughs and bracken were the materials used. To this hut I surreptitiously conveyed a few utensils such as knives, mugs, etcetera, as well as a change of clothing and some cast-off garments as a fresh outfit for Jimmy. We disappeared early one afternoon, and, after a lordly feast of roast rabbit and mushrooms, sank to sleep on a fragrant bed of carefully selected fronds of dry bracken.

At about midnight I awoke with the glare of a lantern in my eyes. My father had come with a search party, and I was led, howling with wrath and disappointment, back to the haunts of conventional men. My absence had not been thought remarkable until ten o'clock had struck. Then a messenger was dispatched to make inquiries at the Kinsella cottage. Patsy, one of Jimmy's numerous brethren, betrayed us. He had, a few days previously, followed our tracks to the secret lair. Poor Patsy, subsequently had reason to regret his treachery.

One escapade of Jimmy's and mine nearly had serious consequences. I had been reading about volcanoes, so was filled with ambition to construct one. I unearthed a large powder-horn, belonging to my father, which must have contained nearly a pound of gunpowder. This I poured into a tin, which I punctured at the side. Into the puncture I inserted a fuse of rolled brown paper which had been soaked in a solution of saltpeter. The tin was placed on the floor in the middle of the tool-house; around it we banked damp clay in the form of a truncated cone, leaving a hollow for the crater. The latter we filled with dry sand and fragments of brick. We lit the fuse, and, as might have been expected, a frightful explosion resulted. The windows were blown completely out of the tool-house. Jimmy and I were flung against the wall and nearly blinded. Several fragments of brick had to be dug out of our respective faces.

Father Healy, celebrated as a wit, occasionally visited our house. His church at Little Bray was noted for the excellence of its choir. The following story, was told of this priest: He was one night dining with an Anglican clergyman, with whom he was on intimate terms. Just previously two Roman Catholic priests, one in England and the other in Ireland, had joined the Anglican communion. This double event, which came up as a topic of conversation at the dinner-table, was, naturally enough, the occasion of some satisfaction to the host. Various views as to the psychology of conversion or, according to one's point of view, perversion, were mooted. Various possible motives, spiritual and temporal, underlying such a change, were discussed. Eventually the host asked Father Healy for his opinion.

"Faith!" replied the latter, "I don't think there's any mystery about the thing at all."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, when one of our men goes over to you, it's always due to one of two causes."

"What are they?"

"Punch or Judy," replied Father Healy laconically.

Although Glencullen Chapel was the nearest to Springfield, the house was in the parish of Enniskerry. Here a certain Father O'Dwyer was the incumbent. Father O'Dwyer was a very irascible man of powerful physique; he was as much feared by the godly as by the ungodly.

He kept a big whip in the vestry, with which to chastise evil-doers; of this I had ocular demonstration.

One Sunday, when High Mass was being celebrated by another priest, a stranger, I was sitting in the carriage, which stood waiting for the conclusion of the ceremony, in the road outside. I had attended early Mass, and arranged to drive home with my people. A number of boys were playing marbles outside the church-yard wall, in a blind alley. The vestry door opened and Father O'Dwyer came out, clad in his soutane and carrying the well-known whip. He crouched and crept along the wall, out through the gate and to the entrance of the alley. The boys were so intent upon their game that they never noticed his approach until he was close upon them. Then they sprang up with wild yells, but the lash descended on them like a well-aimed flail; they rolled over and over in a writhing heap. After the heap had broken up and its shrieking units scattered, the irate priest calmly pocketed the marbles and, whip in hand, stalked back to the vestry.

Confession to Father O'Dwyer was an ordeal much dreaded by the younger members of our family. As we were his parishioners, he expected us to attend to our religious duties at his church, but we endeavored by every possible subterfuge to perform such at Glencullen, where the priest was more sympathetic.

My father used to tell a story of the confessional which always amused us. When a boy, he occasionally visited relations in Dublin who were exact in the matter of regular confession. It was, in fact, the rule of the household that not alone every member, but the stranger within its gates, should confess each Saturday night. As it is on Saturday night that most people confess, a number of penitents were usually sitting in church awaiting their respective turns. On one occasion my father was sitting near a cubicle into which a rather disreputable woman had just entered. He heard the muttering of the voices of the priest and the penitent alternately; once or twice the former emitted a long, low whistle, indicative of extreme surprise.

Another story was told me by a relative. The episode is said to have occurred at Cashel, but I do not guarantee it in any respect. Whether it is true or not does not much matter.

Part of the ritual of confession is this: The penitent repeats a formula of three sentences: "Mea culpa mea culpa mea maxima culpa," striking the breast with the closed hand as each sentence is uttered. On this occasion the words of the penitent, an old countrywoman, could be distinctly heard outside the cubicle. They were: "Mea culpa, mea oh! dammit I've bruk me poipe."

In 1867 befell the Fenian outbreak. At Glencullen, about a mile from the back of our house, was a police barrack. This was attacked one night, but not captured, although the valiant attackers forced some of their prisoners to stand in the line of fire, between them and the building. The police had closed the windows with feather beds and mattresses, and these the Fenian bullets could not penetrate. Within a few days the fiasco of a rising was at an end. I do not think any of the people in our neighborhood joined it. When the rebels retreated along the Wicklow road, they threw several pikes over the wall close to our lodge gates. The preference on the part of the Irishman of the last generation for the pike as a fighting implement was remarkable. He regarded it as quite superior to the rifle.

My father had never been well off; each passing year had left him more and more deeply involved. In 1867 a disastrous lawsuit with the Marquis of Bute over some mining rights in Wales almost brought ruin to our door. It was decided to emigrate. The advantages of New Zealand, Buenos Ayres, and South Africa were all considered. But a letter from Cardinal (then Bishop) Moran, of Grahamstown, decided our fate: the Cape Colony was to be our destination.

My three sisters were all senior to me. The eldest accompanied us to the Cape. The second had, the previous year, gone to India. The youngest, who was in delicate health, remained behind with an aunt. My brother, who was younger than I, stayed at school in Ireland.

So one lovely day, in early November of 1867 we embarked at Dublin on a small paddle-steamer called the Lady Eglinton. Our immediate destination was Falmouth; there we had to join the S.S. Asia, one of the old "Diamond Line." Memory is a curious thing; although I can recall minute details of most of my uneventful life between my sixth and twelfth years, the circumstances of this voyage, the first in my experience, have passed almost entirely away. The only memory that remains is connected with a ridiculous episode.

There was a drunken Irish soldier on board. He was a good-natured creature who made himself most embarrassingly friendly towards all and sundry of the passengers. Eventually he tried to embrace one of the ladies. For this misdemeanor, which I am persuaded was based on no evil intention, he was trussed and tied down on the hatch, close to the wheel. But the man must have been a philosopher, for his bonds distressed him not at all. For several hours he lifted up his voice in continuous song. His repertoire was extensive and varied. To this day I can clearly recall the words as well as the tune of two of his ditties. One related to the history of a pair of corduroy breeches, year by year, since the close of the last decade, each year being treated of in a couplet. The first verse ran thus:

"In eighteen hundred and sixty-one
Those corduroy breeches were begun."

Eventually, in the then current year, 1867 "Those corduroy breeches went up to heaven."

But they must have come down again, for it was prophetically, related that, in 1868 "Those corduroy breeches lost their sate."

Following this came a lyric, having for its theme the pangs of despised love and the faithlessness of the fair. Its refrain ran:

"Oh, surely the wimmin is worse than the min,
For they go to the Divil and come back agin."

Towards the afternoon the minstrel sank into slumber. To judge by the expression of his face his dreams must have been happy ones.

The Asia was awaiting us at Falmouth. By the light of subsequent experience I now know her to have been a very second-class craft even for the sixties but to me then she was an Argo bound for a Colchis, where a Golden Fleece awaited every seeker. There were a number of Cape colonists on board. Among them may be mentioned Mr. and Mrs. "Varsy" Van der Byl, the Rev. Mr. (now Canon) Woodrooffe and his wife, Mr. Templar Horne who was afterwards Surveyor-General and Mr. D. Krynauw, who still enjoys life in his comfortable home just off Wandel Street, Cape Town. Mr. Krynauw added to the gaiety of the community by making clever thumb-nail sketches of all and sundry. But Mr. Woodrooffe was the life and soul of the ship. He seemed to have as many accomplishments as the celebrated Father O'Flynn, with several more thrown in.

Among his other acquirements Mr. Woodrooffe had an excellent knowledge of chess; he was, in fact, by far the best player on board. I often challenged him to play, but he considered a small boy such as I was to be beneath his notice, so kept putting me off. However, one day I happened to be sitting in the saloon, with the chessmen in their places on the board, waiting for a victim. Mr. Woodrooffe chanced to come out of his cabin, so I captured him. But no sooner had we begun to play than two charming young ladies appeared and, one on each side, engaged my opponent in a conversation which, naturally enough, was more interesting than chess with me. Accordingly, he paid little or no attention to the game. I, on the other hand, was in deadly earnest.

I moved out my king's pawn; then the king's bishop; then the queen. My heart was in my mouth; surely so experienced a player was not going to walk open-eyed into such a booby-trap. But the sirens had lured his attention away. Next move I gave him "fool's mate." That moment was one of the proudest of my life; I had beaten the champion, the Admirable Crichton of games of skill, the man whose word was law in all matters relating to sport in our little community.

Unfortunately, however, I was too young and inexperienced to support my triumph with becoming dignity. I rushed up the companion stair shouting the news of my victory at the top of my voice. I told it to the captain, the officers, the passengers, and to such members of the crew as I was acquainted with. But I was astute enough never again to offer to play chess with Mr. Woodrooffe, and even to decline when he suggested our having a return game.

The Biscayan tides were kind; but no sooner had we passed Finisterre than a gale struck us, and for many woeful days the Asia behaved like a drunken porpoise. I do not think a single passenger escaped sea-sickness. The gale continued until the night before we reached Madeira. I shall never forget the enchanting prospect which Funchal afforded as we glided to our anchorage in the early morning. The misery of the previous week was forgotten in the rapture of a moment. The sky was cloudless and the contours of the lovely island were bathed in opaline light. What joy the first sight, smell, and taste of the tropical fruits brought. Cold storage, by bringing all descriptions of exotic fruit to Europe, has robbed travel towards the tropics of one of its keenest delights.

We passed to the westward of Teneriffe in perfectly clear weather. The recent storms encountered by us had extended far to the south; consequently the great peak was clothed in dazzling snow to an unusual distance below its summit. The impression left on my memory by that mountain mass, with the snow-mantle glowing in the rose-red light of sunset, will never fade. I can well remember being sadly disappointed at the first view of the Southern Cross. The voyage was uneventful until we reached the vicinity of the Cape, where we again encountered a most violent south-west gale. For two days we steamed against a tremendous sea. Wave after wave swept our decks; all the passengers had to remain below. I remember the ladies sitting huddled together at night in the companion, and the ship's doctor (I think his name was Williamson) regaling them with gruesome tales of shipwreck until the more nervous of the listeners began to wail aloud. So bad was the storm, that cooking was almost suspended. The menu consisted solely of "sea-pie" a comestible apparently composed of lumps of salt-beef stuck into slabs of very tough dough, and the result boiled in a hurried and perfunctory manner. Two days after the cessation of the storm, the Asia steamed into Table Bay.

The Asia, poor old tub, lies at the bottom of the Bay of Bengal, where she foundered with all hands when engaged in the cattle-trade. Peace to her iron bones. Most of my fellow Argonauts, long before this, must have sunk into that sleep from which there is no earthly waking. Few, if any of us, managed to find the Golden Fleece. Those who, like myself, are still seeking it, are treading that downhill path which grows steeper at every pace, and which leads to that valley, filled with grey shadow, out of which none return. To them I hold out a hand of greeting in the spirit. Perhaps, when the Great Cycle has been traversed, we may meet again. Perhaps in another Argo we may voyage from Sirius to Mazaroth, through seas of golden ether adventurers from world to world instead of from continent to continent.