The glamour of prospecting

by Fred C. Cornell

He brought it back a day or two later with the owner, who was surly when he found our tobacco and coffee were finished, and who wanted to clear off again and leave us to hump the things ourselves. However, he was “persuaded” not to do so, our things were packed on the cow, and we started our long walk back. My boots were literally in shreds, and my feet badly cut and bleeding, and as nearly the whole of the journey was over sharp rocks, I was in a terrible state by the time I got to “Zee-coe-stuk,” where the Hottentots’ encampment was. These people were now insolent to a degree; they demanded tobacco and coffee, and would not believe we had none. Gert showed them our kit, and the cow was unpacked and led away to rest and feed, but they were still derisive, and as there were a round dozen of them, and we were two, it looked as though there might be trouble. We were on a high, well-wooded bank, above a very deep part of the river, and Gert (who of course spoke Hottentot) said that they were openly discussing rushing us, and throwing us into the turbulent, rushing torrent. On the opposite bank, on the lower slopes of the mountain, which came almost sheer into the water, were a troop of big baboons, and this gave me an idea which probably saved bloodshed.

They—the baboons—were about 300 yards away, four of them on a big rock at the edge of the water, and I gave them a magazineful in rapid succession. The second shot hit the rock in the centre of the group, and, “mushrooming,” flew into flinders, which knocked all four of the big baviaans into the river, but I sent the remaining bullets amongst the others higher up, just for effect. I got the effect all right, for turning, I saw Gert, who had my short Martini carbine and was watching the Hottentots, almost doubled up with laughter, and the Hottentots running towards the rocks as fast as their legs would carry them. And in the rocks they stayed, and when the hour came for us to trek, there was neither Hottentot nor pack-cow. Gert went and parleyed with the women in the pondhoeks, but they could do nothing except demand coffee and tabaki, and the gentlemen up in the rocks evidently thought they had the whip hand, as we could go no farther without the cow. I got Gert to shout to them that if the cow was not brought back, we would go, and they merely laughed, doubtless thinking that the pack we should have to abandon would fall into their thieving hands. But I was determined otherwise. We made all essentials into two packets of about 60 lb. each, principally samples of ammunition and expensive prospecting gear, and the pots, tools, cords, and heavy impedimenta we very reluctantly but determinedly flung into the water.

As we were hidden by the thick trees, this procedure could not be seen by the Hottentots, and humping the remainder of our gear, we stole quietly away.

I suppose, with our rifles, etc., we had each about 60 lb. only, but the heat was very great, the silt beside the river, where our path lay, was heavy and intersected by numerous gullies, and within an hour I was quite prepared to throw the remainder into the Orange; but just as I had put the load down for about the twentieth time we heard a shout, and the old cow came lumbering along with several of our late friends behind it. I ordered them back, except the driver, and as they saw me ram a magazineful of cartridges into my Mannlicher, they again performed “Home to the Mountains.”

The rest of that day I walked as I had never walked before, occasionally tearing up a fresh strip from my scanty garments to bind afresh my feet, which were jagged and torn by sharp stones and pricked with thorns till every step was anguish. By night we were at Wag Brand, the old cow having made light of the bad rocks where our old horse had fallen in on the outward journey.

We had hoped to find a few natives here, but the pondhoek was empty, and we could not even borrow a pot to make a little mealie pap from the tiny remainder of our meal and pea-flour. We made a few cakes on the embers, and slept like logs. In the morning we were desperately hungry, and though we had set night-lines, there were no fish on them. We could hear guinea-fowl and pheasant calling everywhere in the dense wood, but could not see them. At last Gert put a bullet through a pheasant, blowing it to bits, which we managed to roast on the embers, and a very tough hors-d’œuvre it proved. The Hottentot demanded food—not without reason; and on our telling him he would get some at Waterfal that night, if there happened to be any people there, he demanded his money and proposed returning. He had had more than his share of the pheasant, including the liver wing, and as I did not wish to be unjust, I gave him the only handful of meal left. This left me with about a tea-cup of pea-flour and a fragment of rusty bacon about 2 inches square to last us two days’ hard trek to Miller’s store at North Furrow, Kakamas, should we fail to shoot anything en route. But that Hottentot was a perfect Oliver Twist. He made asch-kook of the meal and devoured it, whilst we sat and partook of the smell. And then he demanded more! I told him to pack the cow and trek, and if he were lucky he would get something at Waterfal that night. Then, being full of good hot meal, he got cheeky and thrust his Mongol face in mine in a way that could have but one ending. So I knocked him down, three times to be exact, whereupon he became most cheerful, and drove the old cow towards the Great Falls in fine style. We were there by sunset, and I took the boy Gert to see the Cataract, being a bit dubious of the first stream, but traversing it quite safely. The Great Fall itself was more awe-inspiring than ever at sunset, and Gert was so impressed that I had great difficulty in getting him to cross the stream on our way back—he could not swim.

There was not a soul at the Falls, and we could shoot nothing, and short as was the distance, what with the heat and the state of my feet, it took us all next day to get to the store at Krantz Kop, Kakamas North Furrow. We had an alleged meal at midday by the river, where Gert caught a small barbel the size of a herring. It was full of bones and tasted vilely, but with the aid of the pea-flour, and the bacon frizzled on a prospecting shovel, we ate it, bones and all.

We got to the store in the evening. I was literally in rags, and with barely enough of my veldtschoen uppers left to hold together the blood-stained rags on my feet.

At the store I found friends, the magistrate, bank manager, and lawyer from Upington, who were on their way to the Great Falls; though I still believe they had a sneaking idea of making a desperate dash into the Noup Hills themselves to try and get hold of my mine!

Anyhow, there they were, prepared for “roughing it” in great style. They had a waggon crammed with provisions, on the top of which they had stretched several mattresses and at least one feather-bed. They had several riding-horses as well, and the capacious vehicle was overflowing with every kind of eatable and drinkable. They had immaculate white suits and big pith helmets, and altogether quite put my poor old cow and myself in the shade.