The Fish River was “down.” It generally was down, in the sense of being low, but colonial rivers run by contraries—when they are down they are up. There had been a heavy fall of rain “up country,” and the water rushing off the sun-baked surface poured like a flood between the high banks, sweeping, as we afterwards heard, a stone bridge away, and catching in its career a wagon and span of eighteen oxen at a drift which, at the time of crossing, had scarcely water enough to wet the feet. For many a mile the banks of the river are of red soil, and as the flood eats into the banks its waters are stained a dull brick colour, which hue is imparted to the Atlantic itself for miles along the coast as the red waters pour out into the sea, bearing with them a wonderful collection of flotsam in the shape of timber, dead stock, and live reptiles. Of late, railway sleepers formed no small part of the flotsam, and if work was slack we sometimes, when the river was down, spent a sloppy day on the banks fishing for these floating items. On hearing the news I rode off to pick up Uncle Abe, but finding him out, went to a spot on the bank which he particularly favoured, where a wide flat rock stood at the base of a krantz. He was not there, however, and the rock itself was covered by the flood, which reached half-way up the krantz, but it was evident he had been there, for from a cave in the rock, just above the lap of the waters, there issued a thin line of smoke, and on climbing along a ledge I saw signs of his occupation in a skin kaross, a dark lantern, a gun, and a few well-known traps which he always carried with him when after kablejauw, the great hundred pounders which come up as far as this point in the spring tides. Now thoroughly alarmed for his safety, I rode down towards the sea, from which, six miles away, there came the continuous roar and thunder of the surf, and, to my great relief, met him in a bush path, with a full-grown otter on his back, and the water oozing from his top boots and from his clothes, which clung to his lank body.
“Halloa! Uncle; I thought you were drowned.”
“That’s me,” he said, sweeping the water from his eyes; “I’ve been drowned twice over. Got a pipe and baccy? I’m jest perishing for a smoke.”
I saw now that his knuckles were skinned, and that his face was pinched and blue.
“Get up,” I said dismounting.
“Not me. I’d spoil the saddle. Lemme catch hold of the stirrup—so. Now get along quick, for I want to boil this yer soaking of water outer my bones and body.”
We went along, and presently I had a bright fire going in the cave, and the kettle singing, while Abe, stripped of his clothes, sat shivering still in his skin kaross, his eyes fixed on the red torrent, which stretched across for a mile.
A tin beaker of boiling coffee soon brought back the warmth to his body, and when he had my pipe between his teeth he began to talk.
“I believe I’m getting old, sonny; and I’ve lost my fishin’ tackle.”
“Not the kablejauw tackle?”