The glamour of prospecting

by Fred C. Cornell

But, as events proved, our troubles came from neither of these sources, for though the heat really merited the description given it, we were all used to it, and though we suffered a bit from thirst at times, we had rather too much water before the trip was over.

We had difficulty over the transport, for it was harvest-time and the natives were busy getting in their corn, and it was only after several days’ delay that we received an urgent message to the effect that our waggon was waiting us at “15 miles” and that there was no water for the oxen. They called them “oxen,” but we found a most nondescript team of cows, heifers, oxen, and young bulls had been got together to take us part of the way; still, poor as the team was, it served, and we were thankful for small mercies. We did not follow our previous route, this time skirting the mountains running almost due north to Lekkersing and Brakfontein, at both of which places there was water. At the latter spot our troubles began. The waggon could take us no farther, and its native owner had arranged for a conveyance from Kuboos to meet us there and take us on. So at a most dreary spot, not far from the pool of brak water that gives the place its name, we were dumped with all our belongings, and the rickety waggon with its scratch team turned back hurriedly to the harvesting. Later, our ponies turned up from Kuboos, and with them, to our dismay, a small cart for our belongings, which had taxed the capacity of the departed waggon. It was obviously not half big enough for the load, but to send for another meant several days’ more delay, and so we turned to and packed and loaded and overloaded that cart till it looked a veritable work of art. It was piled aloft like a haystack, and the load projected well over the quarters of the oxen, overlapped the wheels on either side, and stuck out behind like the stern of a ship. And always we found something more to pile—or tie—on, but at length, festooned like a tinker’s waggon, we had it securely roped and were ready to start.

The oxen were inspanned, the driver gave a yell and a crack of his whip, and it moved in a swaying, staggering manner across the veldt. Ransson and Poulley mounted and followed hopefully, and even I began to think it might possibly pull through, and was climbing into my saddle when I heard a shout, and turned to see the axle buckle as though made of lead, the wheels spread till they could spread no farther, and the whole caboodle collapse—crushed flat by its load.... There was nothing to be done, and all we said didn’t seem to help! It was hopeless to attempt to mend it, and so we mounted a “boy” on the fastest horse, gave him food and water, and sent him off at a gallop to bring another vehicle from Kuboos.

Meanwhile we pitched our tent and made ourselves comfortable, and waited four long days. There was literally nothing to do, no game to be found except a few Namaquas partridges and a solitary hare, which it seemed a shame to shoot.

At the pool known as “Brakfontein” there were traces of an ancient settlement, with many of the circular graves made by the Hottentots before they became Christianised, and in the sandstone cliffs were many small caves which showed signs of having been inhabited; but I searched in vain for any trace of Bushman paintings. These sandstones resembled those of the Zwartmodder series; in places they are interbedded with shales and quartzite, showing many signs of earth movement and lateral pressure.

On the morning of the fifth day a light waggon arrived and we lost no time in trekking. Three days later we were at Kuboos, where we stored our heavy gear with the native teacher, and began making arrangements for our next move. Whilst delayed at Port Nolloth we had gathered much more information as to the old discovery of gold in “Dabee River,” at which we had worked successfully on our previous trip, and had arrived at the conclusion that we had been taken to the wrong spot. Our informants told us that at the right place nuggets could be picked up in abundance, and it was obvious that they thought little of us for not coming back with a load of gold!

More, there was forthcoming an intelligent coloured man who had accompanied the first expedition, and seen and helped pick up the first nuggets, and who for a substantial consideration would come with us and show us the real spot.

And as we did not like the idea that possibly an El Dorado was all the time waiting near where we had tried in vain, we decided to let this chap take us there, and altered our plans accordingly.

We had no intention, however, of taking a waggon through Hell’s Kloof again, and tried to obtain a Scotch cart, but in vain. There were several waggons at Kuboos, but the only cart available was the one we had placed hors de combat. However, it had been dragged in behind the waggon, and a close examination showed that, although the axle had buckled to a V-shape, the wheels and body were fairly sound, and Poulley said we could mend it ourselves. There was plenty of wood in the river-bed, and, turning to, we soon had a big fire, and the axle was heated red-hot and hammered straight, and the cart ready to start again before the group of open-mouthed Hottentots watching us knew what we were doing.

With a light load drawn by six oxen, our horses, and a few “boys,” we started the following morning down the long dry Annis River towards Hell’s Kloof. To the right rose the formidable range through which we must eventually find a way, on our left, towards the sea, the rolling plain, covered with dark scrub, stretched as far as the eye could reach, dreary, solitary, uninhabited.