They would have decamped and hid in the bush, but I sent some of my Bushmen and brought them back. I asked my own boys, if they were their brothers, meaning of the same race; they repudiated the idea, and said they were monkeys not men, and told me there were very few ever seen, it was very seldom they ever came upon any; they eat carrion. They are evidently a distinct race from the Masara Bushmen who are largely distributed over the desert. One of the women had a baby not much bigger than a half-grown kitten; all of them were destitute of clothing.
The country through which the Oup and Nosop pass, in many places is very pretty and picturesque. At a fountain on the branch of the Oup, I remained several days to hunt, to supply so many people with food.
24th February, 1872. A terrific thunderstorm broke over us soon after midnight, and continued until six this morning, striking and splitting up some large trees a short distance from our camp, and it rent into three a large rock which stood out alone from the base of the hill. The country was swamped with water, the oxen at one time standing half knee-deep in it. My escort of Bushmen and their families for once in their lives had a good shower-bath. The baboons also in the hills must have felt its effects, for they could be heard far and near, with their half-human grunts.
My Bushman with the stump foot told me he could understand the baboon language, when, they are frightened or hungry, or are to meet together to defend themselves against an enemy, or to meet to play, and he knew well what they said and could talk to them. The old ones beat the young baboons with sticks if they do anything wrong, such as stealing the food from others. The Bushman’s language has a great many grunts in it similar to these animals.
I find there are four types of Bushmen in this desert; the lowest is the one already described with no forehead and half wool and hair on their bodies and legs. The second is the wild Bushmen, who live in the mountains near the Orange river, also mentioned, who war on all men, but they are of good form, without hair. The third is the Masara Bush family, also of good proportions and of gentle dispositions, inoffensive and harmless, ready to help or do anything, and they make good servants. It was this tribe I had with me in my wanderings. The two girls I took in charge made good cooks, washed the clothes, and mended them. The fourth is much taller and well-formed, great rascals, who cannot be trusted with anything; they inhabit the eastern portion of the desert, and down by Langberg. A similar tribe were those Sir Walter Currie drove out of the colony, some of whom I fell in with at Quassam under Coche Africanda. The Bushmen of the northern Kalahara are much the same as the Masara, every one of them quite distinct from the Drakensberg Bushmen, whose form and colour differ entirely from the others, which I believe to be a distinct race, and which I described in the first chapter.
One amusing circumstance I omitted to mention in connection with one of these wild Bushman boys, when at Swaart-Modder in the Hygap river, where we had built a stone house under the cliff to keep our goods during our stay there. A young Bush boy came in the evening to the camp and made himself comfortable by the fire. After some time my boys asked him where he came from, but he would give no reply. At last they got from him that he had run away from his people, because his mother had burnt his fingers for stealing, and he came to get something to eat. This was his second visit, and as he had been well fed before, he came again, but managed at the same time to steal some of my boys’ food. On this evening, we had a young man from the colony to drive the cart and look after the boys, and as our stone house was infested with large mice, this young Hancock was catching them in an iron pot, and throwing them out amongst the boys for amusement. As one by one, up to seven, were thrown, this Bush boy picked them up, put them into the red-hot ashes to cook, and, when half-done, ate them as they were. Thinking he must be awfully hungry, I told my cook to put on a pot and cook some Boer meal, which is wheat ground but unsifted; two pints of this were cooked in water, and when ready it was set before him and soon disposed of.
After all the people were asleep, he stole the food they had left, and in the middle of the night, sucked three of my goats dry. The following morning he was not to be found, and for nearly a month we did not see him again; when we had travelled 100 miles north, and were outspanned, he presented himself again, as if it were his first visit. We found out he had lived in the bush, existing on a wild water-melon, called shama or kongive, and had kept us in sight as we travelled. I tried to tame him, but it was of no use; his age was about eleven years. He kept with us off and on for three months, then disappeared altogether; the lions would not let him remain long, without making a meal of him.
We were now travelling through a very pretty part of the desert, open glades and timber trees, lofty pyramidal hills, partly covered with bush, fine grass, with white feathery tops, no inhabitants; a wild and picturesque region, crossing open plains, then gentle rises with low bush; in the distance, mountains with their lofty peaks fading away into nothing. The perfect calm and silence that pervades everything around, the variety of game quietly grazing in all directions, the very loneliness of my position, being many hundred miles from any white man, surrounded only by my own Bushmen, and those who accompany me, living in all their natural innocence as their forefathers lived in prehistoric ages, add immensely to the pleasure one feels in viewing a scene so novel and so seldom to be enjoyed.
The country as we approach Damaraland becomes more wild and broken, lofty mountains come into view as we advance westward. We were nightly visited by lions and wolves, which kept us constantly on the watch, and our fires kept lighted. It is an anxious time, particularly when in the stillness of the night we hear their roar at no great distance, in answer to others far away. The roar of a lion in the still evening can be heard miles away.