On entering the bush we managed to make a breakfast off some fruits which the minister, from his book-learning, knew not to be poisonous, while from the coiled-up leaves of the plantain, we procured sufficient water to slake our burning thirst. We had not gone far, before Mr Ferguson saved me by a quick jerk backwards from the grip of one of those thorns I have before referred to. He informed us that it was a plant very plentiful in the bush, known by the name of uncaria procumbens, from its manner of trailing along the ground; and also called the hook thorn, being armed, as I had noticed, with strong hooks. Besides those on the branches, when the seed vessels break, each of the sides is covered with hooked thorns, which possess such strength and sharpness, that their grasp is with difficulty avoided by the natives, while when the unfortunate European once is caught, all his efforts serve but to fasten him the tighter; for the action of unhooking one thorn only causes him to be seized by a dozen. Indeed, without aid it is almost impossible for him to get away. There is another kind called the Karra-dorn or white thorn, found generally on the banks of rivers, whose thorns are nearly seven inches long, and of such strength and sharpness that a lion has been known to have been impaled on them, and died of the wounds inflicted.
Hearing this account of them, I loudly rejoiced at my good fortune which had kept me from too close a proximity, when first seeing them in the bush.
Mr Ferguson’s anecdotes pleasantly whiled away the time; and to our relief we came across no more savage animals than monkeys, who, as we passed, jabbered and chattered in hundreds from the trees above, which were in general, all festooned with the before-mentioned Baboon ropes. Frequently, however, the Hook thorn presented impenetrable barriers across our path, compelling us to turn out of our course; and more than once, I know the thought occurred to all of the probability of our being lost in the bush. But Mr Ferguson kept a constant watch on the sun, and encouraged Jack with comforting words when, poor fellow, his heart began to fail, for his wounds had made him weak and hopeless.
We must, I am sure, have been over ten hours in the wood before we began to find the trees grow less thickly together, when we made more rapid progress. In another hour we had got to the outskirts of the forest when, laying my hand on Jack’s arm, I said, pointing with the other to a beautifully green plain some little distance off, and slightly below our level.
“Jack, look, we have got to the natives at last. Do you see them, Mr Ferguson?”
“I do,” responded Jack, “and a rum set of outlandish niggers they are. Lor, who can expect to be understood, much less receive hospitality from them. Far more likely to give us a warmer reception than we care for. But what on earth are they about?”
“They are evidently performing some native ceremony,” said Mr Ferguson.
But the description of the tribe of Kaffirs we had come upon, and the ceremony in which they were taking part, I shall leave for the commencement of the next chapter.