The glamour of prospecting

by Fred C. Cornell

Meanwhile, the sonorous sentences went on, then came hymns sung with enormous fervour in the extraordinary “click,” prayers and exhortations, whilst the birds fluttered in the bush roof above us, and the sun, now high in the heavens, flung broad blotches of gold through the open spaces on to the motley assembly facing us. And motley it was to a degree: tall, thin, spare yellow men with rudimentary noses, high cheek-bones, oblique eyes, and the Tartar appearance of the true Hottentot, sardonic-looking Bastards with aquiline noses and faces of a pronounced Jewish type, here a blubber-lipped, grinning Christy Minstrel, black as ebony, and all rolling eyeballs and gleaming teeth; there a big nondescript with red hair and a skin all piebald with huge freckles; by his side, and equally devout, the puckered physiognomy, all tattoo marks and wrinkles, of a pigmy Bushman.

This extraordinary race-mixture to be found amongst the so-called “Hottentots” of Richtersfeldt is to be accounted for by the fact that the lower reaches of the Orange River bordering their territory was at one time, and to a minor degree is still to-day, a sanctuary for refugees from every tribe in South Africa. Flying from justice or persecution, they sought this remote spot, intermarried with the Hottentots, and have helped produce a tribe, or community, as heterogeneous as it is possible to conceive.

The following day Mr. Kling sorted out from among his motley flock the guides who were to take us to the many old prospects among the mountains, and after consideration we decided to send these men with the waggon and our heavy stores to Annisfontein, a spot affording the best starting-place from which to penetrate the tangle of mountains. Meanwhile, with a light cart drawn by six oxen, we proposed to visit the little-known bays on the coast near the mouth of the Orange River, thence working our way up the river-bank till we rejoined the waggon; and as the pace of the latter with its heavy load would be of necessity slow, we hoped by this arrangement to save a lot of time.

We started that night. Meanwhile the Hottentot encampment had broken up and the natives had dispersed in all directions, leaving the empty and deserted bush chapel alone marking the spot of their meeting-place.

The cart was a featherweight to the sturdy team, and trekking well into the night and again before dawn, we were in sight of the sea when the fog lifted in the morning; however, it was still far distant, and it was then possible to realise to what a height above sea-level the gently undulating plain had brought us. All day long, with but brief spells of rest, we trekked on, and the long glistening line of sea seemed as far off as ever. Two strangely shaped mountains, known as the “Buchu Bergen,” were our objective, as we knew them to mark the locality of the bays. That night we again trekked late, and midnight found us under the black shadow of “Buchu Berg,” with the thunder of the surf in our ears and the sweet perfume of the buchu bush making fragrant the cold night air. And cold it was—one of the coldest nights I ever remember. We had a bucksail with us, but the wind was so strong that we spent most of the night trying to hold it down over the cart we were “sleeping” under, and I was very glad when morning came.

Directly below the steep face of Buchu Mountain we came upon the most perfect little boat bay imaginable, surrounded by high rocks and almost circular, but with room only for a few lighters and small craft; here the ruins of a substantial stone house still stand, and little piles of copper ore scattered here and there tell their tale of the past. South of the cove runs a long, shallow depression known as Homewood Harbour, little better, however, than an open roadstead. The whole coast is indescribably lonely and desolate, and, to add to its dreariness, scattered along the beach far above high-water mark lie piles of driftwood, the accumulation of centuries, tree-trunk piled upon tree-trunk to a height of 4 or 5 feet, and a belt of 10 to 15 yards extending for many miles. Many of them are the remains of big trunks 2 or 3 feet in diameter, and all of them are bone-dry and like tinder.

Turning northward, we tramped, hot and thirsty, around the long crescent-shaped indentation known as “Peacock Roadstead,” the northern extremity of which is Cape Voltas, so named by hardy old Bartholomew Diaz, who landed there in 1486 and erected a padrão—a stone pillar surmounted by a cross such as these devout old adventurers usually hanked round with them, tokens of a pledge to the Pope that the salvation of the infidel was the principal object of their quest.

The headland is low and insignificant, and, as at Cape Cross, no vestige of the pillar remains, not even the hole it stood in. It is highly probable that Diaz landed at a small cove some distance from the point, where there are more ruins of a much more recent date, with a rude boatslip and many fragments of copper ore.

Following a coastline is tedious work, especially when one is extremely thirsty and when one feels compelled to examine the gravel for possible diamonds every few yards; and it was sunset when we reached Alexander Bay, a nice little harbour with a good beach, sheltered by high rocks on either side, the entrance partly protected by a bar, and apparently easily convertible into a very snug little anchorage for the tugs, lighters and small craft necessary for the shipment of ore on a large scale. The numerous shell middens to be found on this uninhabited coast probably mark the site of Bushman or Strandlooper settlements of long ago, and it is likely that where these huge mounds of shells, fragments of pottery, etc., are to be found, water was at one time not far distant, though to-day there is not a drop to be found between the Orange River and the brak water-holes at Rietfontein, some twenty miles south.

Just beyond Alexander Bay we found our cart, the oxen outspanned and the natives as anxious for mutton and coffee as we were ourselves, and two hours’ trekking with a bitterly cold wind in our teeth brought us to the ruined farm near the mouth of the Orange, where we were thankful indeed to get a drink again.