The glamour of prospecting

by Fred C. Cornell

Evening found us struggling in a perfect maze of deep, tortuous ravines from which it was impossible to see anything, and in which to keep even an approximate course was out of the question, and as night fell we were glad to “give it best” and turn in beside a tiny pool of stagnant rain-water which we were lucky enough to stumble upon. There was dead wood enough for a fire, and the “boys” kept it up all night, for a perfect path of leopard spoors encircled the little puddle and the Hottentots were scared out of their wits; for they credit the leopards of these mountains with a ferocity above all others—and not without reason.

We were afoot at early dawn and plunged again into the labyrinth, here and there climbing a high point to endeavour to obtain a glimpse of the peak we sought, or of some tangible landmark or way out; but it was high noon, and we were almost dead-beat, before we at long last broke clear, and into a wide, well-defined ravine that ran in the right direction. The tourmaline crystals in the white quartz reefs abounding in this ravine were the largest I have ever seen, and there were abundant traces of tin everywhere; but we were eager for diamonds, nothing less, and pushed on, at length emerging into more open country, with our elusive hill full in sight. But alas! as we proceeded and broke clear of the surrounding rocks, we saw that instead of one hill there were three—four—five—all the same strange shape, all alike as two peas! Truly an embarras de richesses, for this multiplicity either meant we were on the wrong scent, or that we should have to search all of them before we could get the next landmark!

We sat down and had a meal of sorts before tackling them, and very little was said, Borcherds’ cheery remark that there would be a mine in each of them being met with a cold silence. Not that anything, even silence, could be “cold” in those ravines, be it understood, for the rock was too hot even to sit upon without an aroma as of fried steak arising, and the fact that our water was nearly finished, and we had no notion when or where we should find any more, by no means added to our hilarity.

The next two days were productive of more climbing, scrambling, and general discomfort and profanity, than I ever remember concentrated in so short a time. Not that we did not find the landmarks; on the contrary, we found too many of them. For from the five hills we could see others; from each there were dozens of ravines, any one of which would answer the meagre description of the narrative, and as we plodded along from one to the other, doggedly determined to find the right one, we were eternally stumbling on something to raise our hopes to the highest pitch, only to find them dashed down immediately by some new obstacle.

We found enough rain-water to live on, though it was vile and stinking, and every hour of daylight we searched, and searched, in vain. Apparently no human foot had ever trod these hills before, for no spoor except those of baboon, leopard, and lynx showed in the white sandbeds of the many dry river-beds; in fact, the whole region was given up to these, its only fit denizens. Except on the summits of some of the flat-topped hills there was no vegetation; there the queer-looking koker-boom clustered in miniature forests.

The Hottentots apparently thought we were mad, though in any case as long as they had enough to eat and drink they cared little; but even their curiosity was at length stirred, and it occurred to them to ask us what we were looking for, anyway; and in a queer mixture of Dutch, English, and Hottentot, we told them. “Oh, that place,” said they, “where the ‘bright stones’ come from? That place, by the big mountain? Oh! that is not in these hills, that place is a long day’s trek farther on; not near the Molopo, but near the Bak River, right on the German border, that place.” Words failed. So these poor despised chaps knew the real place all the time, and we had not even asked them!

Borcherds tore his battered remains of a hat off, and jumped upon it in sheer exasperation.

“Which way?” he snorted, grabbing up his kit, and preparing to make a beeline.

But the Hottentots apparently knew no way except to get back to the Molopo, and thence follow the Orange downstream, and we did not at all like the idea of that; but patient inquiry elicited the information that the place to which we had sent the cart could not be more than half a day from where we were, and from the cart the men could find the way.

At great pains we reached an open valley that night, where at some deserted water-pits the cart should have been, but neither cart nor spoor could be seen, and we spent an anxious night, for our food was finished, and game had proved so scarce that there was little chance of living by the rifle, should any mishap have happened to the vehicle. In the morning, however, we found it a few miles up the valley, and had the first real square meal we had had since it left us.