Reminiscences of a South African Pioneer

by W. C. Scully

CHAPTER III

Arrival at Cape Town—Port Elizabeth—First encounter with big game Grahamstown—Severe thunderstorm—King William's Town Natives and their ponies—Social peculiarities—Farming—The annual trek—Camp-life Surf-bathing—Self-sacrificing attitude of Larry O'Toole—Capture of an ant-bear—The coast scenery—A moral shock—School Chief Toise—Rainy seasons—Flooded rivers

It was about the middle of December when we reached Table Bay. With the exception of the old Slave Barracks, in which the Supreme Court sits, I do not think a single one of the present Adderley Street buildings existed. Bree Street is more or less unchanged, but immediately to the eastward of it modernization begins. The most interesting building to me was the old Fruit Market, facing the Parade. I think it stood on the present site of the Drill Hall. The variety of strange fruits there to be found, the grotesque dresses of the Malays, and the babel of uncouth speech exercised a fascination the memory of which has never faded.

The costume of the average Malay woman has remained unchanged; it is surely the most hideous of the many sumptuary hideosities for which fashion is responsible. This is the more deplorable for that the Malay women, when young, are often extremely pretty. The color scheme they affect is good; these women usually dress in light, flimsy silks of varied hue. Such materials are used at all events among the well-to-do for skirt, bodice, kerchief, and coiffure. But under the skirt, which hangs from just below the arm-pits, there must be at least a dozen petticoats. The result is a figure resembling a misshapen cone. I believe this costume is an exaggerated imitation of that of the "merchant's" wife of a little more than a century ago, and that it was adopted by the Malays when the Dutch sumptuary laws were repealed.

We were hospitably entertained by the families of some friends we had made on the voyage. One day we spent with the Hams, an old Cape family whose homestead, long since "improved" away, stood not far from the present site of the Mount Nelson Hotel. Constantia, also, we visited, and were presented with some of the famous wine there grown.

At this time the only railway in South Africa was a single line between Cape Town and Wynberg. It was said, but I do not know with how much truth, that the building of this line was due to the accidental circumstance that a ship, bound for Australia with railway material, was wrecked in the vicinity of the Cape.

After a delay of about a week we set sail for Port Elizabeth, the end of our voyage. We left considerably more than half of our passengers in Cape Town. The parting with some of these was a sad experience; during the course of the long voyage we had made many friends. We reached Port Elizabeth on Christmas Eve, and were carried ashore through the surf by natives. Immediately after landing, we passed a yard full of old lumber. Protruding from a chaos of ancient rubbish was a signboard, bearing in dingy letters the legend: "Joseph Scully, Coach Painter." This is the only occasion upon which I have come across my name in South Africa. We landed at once, but some of the passengers elected to remain on board the Asia until next morning. This they had ample cause to regret, for a severe south-easter set in during the night and rendered communication with the shore impossible for several days.

Port Elizabeth, although then a thriving town, had not yet earned the title "the Liverpool of South Africa." I doubt as to whether its commercial self-righteousness had developed to the extent of adopting the sobriquet "the Honest Port." My most salient memories are of hospitality, wool, hides, pumpkins, and sand. So far as I can recall, neither Main Street nor the Market Square was paved. That useful but ungainly ship of the southern deserts, the ox-wagon, was much in evidence. When the wind blew, as it did nearly all the time we were there, the dust arose in one continuous cloud, and grit reigned supreme.

But the hospitality of the Port Elizabethans was a thing to be remembered with great pleasure. No sooner had we landed than invitations poured in on us. This was not merely complimentary it was the outcome of genuine kindness and a desire to be helpful. There was no ostentation, but just the natural expression of a simple desire to welcome and assist the stranger newly arrived within the gates. Hospitality was one of the cardinal South African virtues in those days. It has been truly said that even a quarter of a century ago a man might ride from Cape Town to the Limpopo without a shilling in his pocket, and be well entertained all the way. Things have, however, much changed in this respect. I suppose this was inevitable; true hospitality is a plant which seldom survives the hot stress of the struggle for riches.

Grahamstown was our destination, so an ox-wagon of the largest size and with a team to match was hired to convey us and our belongings to the city, which has since become so celebrated as the abode of saints. Our first outspan was in the valley of the Zwartkops River, close to a big vlei, which was surrounded by dense, scrubby jungle. I had a small single-barreled rifle, so I loaded this and went off in search of big game. In anticipation of our translation to Africa I had done a good deal of rifle practice at Springfield, and had thus become a fair shot.

But now, to my great disappointment, I could find nothing on which to exercise my skill. After a long, hot, circular walk, in the course of which I had not seen a living thing, I found myself once more on the edge of the vlei, within a hundred yards of the wagon. I was so thirsty that I found it impossible to pass the water without drinking. The margin of the vlei was very muddy, so, placing my rifle against a tree, I stepped from one tussock to another, so as to get within reach of deeper and, therefore, clearer water. I bent down to drink, placing one hand on a tussock and the other on what I took to be a stone, about six inches in diameter. But when I touched it the supposed stone emitted a terrible "quor-r-rr-k," and squattered away. It was an immense bull frog I had tried to lean upon. I sprang up and fled. Such was my first experience of African big game.

After a six days' trek we reached Grahamstown. We failed to observe any, saints, but, on the other hand, met a number of very kind sinners, who did a lot towards making our stay a pleasant one. For a week we were the guests of Judge Fitzpatrick and his wife. The judge and my father had occupied chambers together as young men in Dublin. "Sir Percy" was then a boy I should say about three or four years my junior. The judge's orchard was all that could be desired by hungry boys; the flavor of the apricots there growing will never be forgotten by me.

We took a house as a temporary measure, my father in the meantime endeavoring to secure a suitable farm. In this he was unsuccessful, so after six weeks we hired another wagon and started for King William's Town. The rains had been heavy, and the drift of the Fish River on the direct road was consequently impassable, so we took the longer route and crossed by the old wooden military bridge at Fort Brown. This bridge was swept away by the great flood of 1874. A great iron girder structure has been put in its place.

Just before fording the Keiskamma River we encountered a most terrible thunderstorm. Whilst making all due allowance for inexperience, and having since sampled some heavy weather of various sorts in the tropics, I am of opinion that this storm was the worst I have ever seen. Early in the afternoon of a hot bright day, snow-white, solid-looking clouds began to collect around the peaks of the Amatole Mountains. These grew rapidly until they coalesced in a dense, compact mass. After remaining stationary, for some time, this began to move slowly towards us. It was black beneath, but dazzlingly white at the summit. It swept down with accelerating speed. The air throbbed with that most awe-inspiring sound, the guttural murmur of approaching hail. For some minutes the rain descended in drowning sheets. Then the hail smote us like a roaring cataract. The wind was so furious that the wagon tilt was almost torn to pieces. But, as terrifying agencies, these were as nothing to the lightning which appeared to stab the ground so closely and incessantly all around us that escape seemed an impossibility and to the thunder, which kept up a continuous bellow, punctuated by stunning crashes. The storm lasted far into the night; then the clouds rolled away, leaving an absolutely clear sky. Next morning was cloudless, and was followed by a lovely day. We searched far and near for evidence of damage, but all we found was a shattered mimosa-tree. The bark and the wood were lying about, frayed into their ultimate fibers; they looked like teased-out flax. Curiously enough they showed no sign of burning.

After a trek lasting eight days we reached King William's Town, which even then was a flourishing place. Three regiments were stationed there—the 9th and 11th Infantry and the old Imperial Cape Mounted Riflemen. Of the latter, the rank and file were principally Hottentots, but the officers were European. This regiment, an excellent one in every respect, was shortly afterwards disbanded.

We settled down for a stay in King William's Town, to enable us to take our bearings. My father made various trips throughout the district, looking for a suitable farm. Red-coated soldiers and red-blanketed natives were everywhere in evidence. The liquor-shops (canteens they were called) did a roaring trade. Every morning hundreds of natives, mounted on wiry ponies and clad in nothing but trousers and red blanket, would gallop into the town by every road. In the afternoon they would gallop back again, nearly ail more or less tipsy. The ponies were excellent animals; in breed they were identical with the famed "Basuto pony," for which long prices are given today. It is a great pity that these ponies have been allowed to become practically extinct in the Cape Colony. For hardiness and docility they were unequalled. Like so much else, they melted away in the coffers of the canteen-keeper.

Socially, King William's Town was in a most curious condition. The military absolutely ruled the roost. Trade, whether wholesale or retail, carried the Mark of the Beast, and no one connected therewith was recognized. Neither beauty, intellect, nor wealth was allowed to count against the disgrace involved in one being in any way connected with commerce. I will give an illustration showing how strong this preposterous feeling was.

My sister was very popular with the military set. (We were poor enough, in all conscience, but we had not disgraced ourselves by, contact with trade.) She struck up a friendship with the daughter of the proprietor of a large business. He belonged to an old and much-esteemed colonial family. The girl was pretty, accomplished, and amiable. But she was "left out" of everything. Dance after dance was given, but Miss X never received an invitation. My sister was distressed at this, and, when a large military dance was projected, used every ounce of her influence towards having her friend invited. But all her trouble was in vain.

What made the situation hopeless was the circumstance that the civilians accepted it with contemptible humility. It was almost pathetic to observe how people, just on the border-line, received with humble thankfulness such crumbs of recognition as were occasionally thrown to them. Snobbery increases in offensiveness when it is transplanted.

Living was exceedingly cheap. I think the price of meat was twopence per pound. I have seen hundreds of bags of excellent potatoes offered on the morning market and taken away unsold because no one would bid a shilling per bag for them. Most people were poor, but they seemed somehow to be comfortable enough. There was no such thing as pauperism. Even the poorest could afford to keep horses. Journeys were generally performed on horseback, luggage being carried on a pack-horse, led by an after-rider. I had a splendid pony, which cost only 3. He grazed on the town commonage; besides grass, he never got anything to eat but an occasional handful of mealies. Yet he always was in good condition. On this pony I regularly followed the hounds for some months for the military kept a pack of foxhounds with which duiker antelopes were hunted and was usually in at the death.

After a time my father managed to hire what was believed to be a suitable farm near MacLean Town. It was called "Sunny Slope" and it belonged to Mr. Benjamin Norton, who lived on the farm adjoining. Here we began farming with about eight hundred sheep, and a few head of cattle. The farm contained long, gentle, undulating slopes, divided by shallow kloofs full of forest. The pasturage was rich and water was plentiful. But our farming was not successful; it was hardly possible that it could have been so. Farming is a trade, and has to be learnt. Moreover, wool went down in price and the sheep contracted various diseases. However, the latter evil was overcome with the kind assistance of our neighbors.

In the days I write of, the whole of the coast of British Kaffraria between the Kei River and the Keiskamma, with the exception of the then insignificant town of East London and a small area in its vicinity, was almost uninhabited. It was the custom for practically, all Kaffrarian stock-farmers to trek down to the coast with their stock for the three winter months. Then the range of forest-clothed sandhills forming the coastline held a succession of camps. The scenery was enchanting; every valley brimmed with evergreen forest, and between the valleys sloped downs, clothed with rich grass.

Game was abundant, and the lagoon at the mouth of every stream piercing the line of sandhills teemed with fish. The trek period was looked upon as one of holiday. Care was thrown to the winds; picnics, hunting, and sea-bathing were the order of the day. Social gatherings took place alternately at the various camps not too distant from each other. More or less impassable estuaries, where the larger streams broke through to the sea, divided the coast tract into so many separate blocks.

Horses were plentiful; probably every individual, not too old or too young to ride, had at least one mount available. Young men and maidens thought nothing of riding ten miles to tea, and riding back in the starlight when the gathering broke up. Homely song and the strains of the now much despised concertina mingled with the softened thunder of the surf, and, borne by the mild breath of the sea wind, no doubt surprised the wild creatures whose sanctuaries we had invaded. I have since heard some of the greatest singers and instrumentalists, but no music has ever given me such joy as those rudimentary strains listened to at night in a clearing of the forest near the mouth of the Gonubie River, with the chastened resonance of the Indian Ocean surf as an accompaniment.

I often recall our bathing. The beach was level and sandy, not a reef nor even a rock was within sight. Immense rollers fugitives from the wrath of far-off tempests used to sweep in continuously. Just before breaking these would tower aloft, their fine-drawn crests poised for an instant in the sunlight. Our favorite sport was among these waves. We would buffet our way out to the breaking zone. Then, as the mighty, walls of glistening water swept up, we would drive through them, one by one, or else lie flat on the water in the hollow, side to the advancing wave. In the latter case the wave would pick the bather up with a sudden swing, poise him for an instant on its trembling crest, and then whirl him round and round as it swept restlessly shoreward. This whirling was so rapid that I have occasionally almost lost consciousness when in the grip of an unusually, powerful breaker. We never considered that we were doing anything venturesome; the sport described was followed by all and sundry, quite as a matter of course. Nevertheless, I think the boys used to venture out farther than the men. Sharks we never thought of. It was not considered possible that we could be carried out to sea, for the greatest difficulty lay in keeping oneself from being flung back on the shore by the rapidly advancing waves. I wonder whether bathers nowadays venture out as far as we did.

The friends with whom I usually stayed were the Barbers, who lived at Grey Park, a few miles from Sunny Slope. I mean Mr. Hilton Barber, now of Halesowen, near Cradock, and his brothers Guy and Graham. The latter, one of the truest friends I ever had, is, alas! long since dead. He fell a victim to pneumonia at Johannesburg in the early days. Related to or connected with the Barbers were the Atherstones, Cummings, McIntoshes, and Dicks, whose tents usually, stood in the vicinity of the Barber encampment.

I recall one incident which caused a great deal of laughter. Mr. Guy Barber was then engaged to his present wife, who was Miss McIntosh, a girl of remarkable beauty. A certain Mr. Larry O'Toole, who had come out in the Asia under my father's protection, was staying at a camp in the vicinity. One day a wild-duck shoot was in progress. Larry, who knew little or nothing about shooting, was of the party. The sportsmen took their stations around the margins of a large, sinuous vlei. The ducks, after being disturbed, flew up and down. Miss McIntosh, with her fiance, was on horseback opposite Larry, on the other side of the water. Some ducks flew past and Larry fired. The birds were untouched, but the horse ridden by, Miss McIntosh was severely peppered and began to plunge violently. In the course of a severe reproof for his carelessness, Larry was asked by Guy Barber:

"Now, supposing you had blinded or otherwise badly injured Miss
McIntosh, what would you have done?"

"Oh! begor," replied Larry, "I suppose I'd have had to marry, her."

Poor Larry O'Toole! We met, years afterwards, in a remote mining-camp. He ventured into the Low Country beyond the Murchison Range at the wrong season, and contracted fever. In the delirium which supervened he blew his brains out. Larry had a brother, Edmund, who had been a sailor, and who joined Butler's Horse in the Zulu War. He gained the Victoria Cross the day before Ulundi. Together with the late Lord William Beresford ("Bill," as he liked to be called, alliteratively ) he saved a wounded man from the spears of the enemy. For this exploit the cross was offered to Lord William, but he refused to accept it unless a similar distinction were conferred on O'Toole.

The latter had a varied career. I once hailed a cab in Cape Town and found he was the driver. He told me he had saved 200 at cab driving. But I judge from what I subsequently heard that the money did him no good. He, like so many others of "the legion that never was listed" with whom I have foregathered, has long since closed his earthly account.

One occurrence I heard of among the seaside camps merits relation. It should be mentioned that the extraordinary, story reached me at second-hand. The incident is said to have taken place one season when I did not visit the coast.

At the end of the sixties no zoological garden contained a specimen of the South African anteater. I do not know whether any such institution contains one now. However, a very liberal price was offered for a live specimen. This extraordinary creature is almost strictly nocturnal in its habits, and is consequently extremely difficult to capture. One day a man with whom I was acquainted was riding through the veld a few miles from his camp. To his surprise he noticed a large ant-eater. Mindful of the reward offered, he sprang from his horse and seized the creature by one of its hind-legs.

The ant-eater has hardly any means of defense, its formidable claws being used solely for digging. But its strength and its digging powers are almost beyond belief. In sandy soil one will bury itself in a few seconds. In this instance the captor had to exert all his strength merely to keep the animal above ground. He was, in fact, only able to do this by means of continually shifting his position, a process involving constant and exhausting effort. He bethought him of the rein fastened to his pony's halter. With great difficulty he loosened this, and tied it in a noose around the ant-bear's loins. But matters were not improved; the digging went on more vigorously than ever.

At length he realized that it was impossible to prevent the animal from burrowing out of sight. One expedient remained. The pony, had a long and bushy tail. He doubled the end of this, and securely fastened the rein to it. Then he hastened to his camp for the purpose of fetching a spade and calling people to assist him.

On returning a strange spectacle met his view. The pony was sitting on the ground, erect, after the manner of a biped. Its head was in the air, its hind-legs were extended horizontally, its fore-legs were waving impotently up and down'. The ant-bear had carved its way deep into the bowels of the earth, gradually but relentlessly dragging the hapless pony down until its posterior parts hermetically sealed up the burrow. It was, in fact, only the smallness of the latter which prevented the animal from being completely buried. Eventually, however, the rein snapped, and the pony was thus released from a durance probably unique in equine experience. But I wish to make it quite clear that I guarantee nothing in connection with the foregoing remarkable tale, except that I have related it as it was told to me.

I often picture the rounded sandhills stretching from the Gonubie Mouth to the Nahoon, with the dark, olive-green boskage that clothed their curves with beauty, and the veil of orange tinted mystery that at dawn hung like a curtain across that region where sea and sky awaited, breathless, the advent of day. I suppose the placid lagoons still mirror the drifting pageants of cloudland, while the purple kingfishers flit from rock to rock, or poise, fluttering in the air, before they, plunge into the crystal water.

I imagine that at windless nightfall the rich, throbbing organ-tones of the Indian Ocean surf toll all the darkling glades. I wonder do the green, flame-winged loories today call hoarsely through the aisles of greenery, and the bushbucks bark their angry challenges from the deep and tangled hollows. I wonder do the monkeys, when the forenoon waxes sultry, swing chattering from bough to bough down the hillside, seeking their daily drink in the coolest depths of the kloof, and do the great Nymphalis butterflies, with wings of ochre and pearl, flit among the tree tops!

But so much I know that a part of my youth which in some strange way seems to have acquired an individuality, of its own dwells, and will for ever dwell, among these scenes. And I shall never be so ill-advised as to seek it, for the wraith, like a mocking dryad, would flit from tree to tree, as beautiful and as elusive as the rainbow.

While living at Sunny Slope I paid my first visit to East London, the occasion being an agricultural show. I accompanied the Norton family. We traveled in an ox-wagon through the loveliest imaginable country. Our course lay mainly down the valley of the Nahoon River, in which the vegetation was then much richer than it is today. The little town of East London was confined to the west bank of the Buffalo River mouth. Where the town now stands, on the east bank, there was not a single house in 1868. So far as I can recollect, Tapson's Hotel was the only building between Cambridge and the sea. This building was still in existence a few years ago. The Buffalo River had to be crossed by means of a pontoon; the road to this was cut through dense jungle. Judging by the spoors crossing the road this jungle must have been full of game.

After the show a large picnic was held in the forest at the well-known
Second Creek. The guests were conveyed to the spot by a paddle tug, the
Buffalo. This vessel now lies, a melancholy wreck, half-submerged, at
the mouth of the Kowie River.

At the picnic I sustained a severe moral shock. A certain doctor with whom I was acquainted an elderly and much respected resident of King William's Town looked upon the wine when it was red, and became violently uproarious. My ethical orientation became disturbed; all my canons got confused. I had seen this man wearing the insignia of municipal dignity; he had been mayor of his town during the previous year. Now he was acting the mountebank, to the huge amusement of a lot of yokels.

I knew that disreputable Europeans and natives occasionally became intoxicated, but here was my first experience of a respectable person committing such a lapse. The shock was so painful that my enjoyment was completely spoilt. I crept to a thicket, from which I could see without being seen, and observed the old gentleman's antics with amazed horror. He insisted on making a long speech, interspersed with snatches of song. This only came to an end when some of his friends seized the tails of his frock-coat and hauled him down. Then he was carried, protesting loudly, to the tug.

It soon became abundantly clear that our farming could not prove a success, so Sunny Slope was given up, and we returned to King William's Town. Here my father, with the remainder of his capital, purchased a property in the Alexandra Road, close to the present railway-station. Sheep had fallen heavily in value; our flock could not be realized without incurring a ruinous loss, so it was kept for a time on the town commonage. Eventually, it was handed over to a native chief named Toise, who lived on the other side of the Buffalo River, about five miles away.

I was put to the grammar school, where I studied for something more than half a year. This, it may be remarked, is all the regular schooling I ever had. Mr. John Samuel, who afterwards became a school inspector, was the head master. Dr. Theal, the historian (then Mr. Theal), was in charge of the second division, or, as it was called, the lower school.

It was my duty to ride out every Saturday to Toise's kraal for the purpose of counting the sheep. So far as I can remember, none were ever stolen a fact of some significance considering that the whole country, almost as far as the eye could reach in every direction, was densely populated by "raw" natives. But the unhappy animals suffered from scab and various other diseases.

Toise, albeit addicted to strong drink, was a gentleman in all essentials. He was a tall, dignified, and remarkably handsome man; his hospitality and courtesy could not be surpassed. A calabash of delicious amaas (koumis) was always ready for me on my arrival, and a feed of mealies provided for the pony. I believe that subsequently Toise became ruined, morally and physically, through the drink habit. He was only another of the countless victims of "Cape Smoke."

In the days I write of, the climate of the Eastern Province was totally different from what it is today. From October to March thunderstorms, accompanied by torrential rain, were of frequent occurrence. Early in the afternoon clouds would appear over the mountains to the north-west; between three and four o'clock these clouds, now forming immense, towering masses of cumulus, would sweep down towards the sea, pouring out torrents of rain on their course. Between five and six o'clock all these meteorological alarums and excursions would be over, the sky would be again clear, and the sun again shining hotly, on the drenched earth.

Hailstorms occasionally happened. I recall a very remarkable one that passed over that portion of King William's Town known as "the German Village" in, I think, the summer of 1869. The hailstones, which were of immense size, did not fall very thickly. Moreover, the area of the town over which the storm passed contained no houses but thatched ones. Great lumps of ice, all of the same shape, but of various sizes, began to rain out of the sky. The shape was that of a full-blown rose; it suggested that each had been formed in a tiny vortex-mould. Some of the lumps measured four inches across. Dr. Egan, at the Grey Hospital, secured one monster which weighed a pound and three-quarters.

The throbbing roar heralding the approaching hail cataract was a thing never to be forgotten. I heard of no fatalities among human beings, but a flock of sheep was wiped out at a spot where the storm concentrated. This happened on a high, abrupt hill about twenty miles away.

In those days streams such as the Kat, the Koonap, the Buffalo, and the Keiskamma were really rivers; often they foamed down in mighty brown torrents. As there were no bridges, except the occasional military, ones, post carts would often be delayed for days at a time, and one's letters would sometimes arrive more or less in a state of pulp. The whole country was covered with rank vegetation up to June, when nearly all the grass would be burnt off. It is to the cessation of this immemorial practice one noted by, all the voyagers along the south-east coast that I attribute the enormous increase of the tick pest.

One of my favorite diversions, when the Buffalo was in flood, was to ride to a spot near the upper end of the town and there strip. I would tie my clothes into a bundle and entrust them, with my pony, to another boy. Then I would jump into the river and allow myself to be carried down by the torrent. All one had to do was to keep well in the middle of the stream and avoid contact with occasional uprooted trees.

Once or twice I found myself, when thus swimming, unpleasantly close to puff-adders and other snakes which had been washed by the flood out of their hiding-places in the holes piercing the river-banks. But such reptiles were always too much stiffened by the cold water to be capable of doing any injury.

Meanwhile the boy, with my clothes and the pony, would be waiting for me at a stated spot some distance below the wool-washing yards to the south-east of the town. I should not now care to venture on such an excursion.