Before leaving Port Nolloth we had heard a rumour that there was some kind of trouble at Zendling’s Drift between the Richtersfeldt Hottentots and a German survey party which was about to cross into British territory for survey purposes, and with the permission of the Union Government. We could get no details, but troopers of the C.M.P. were supposed to be on their way to the spot, and these Hottentot drivers were full of the news. They were inclined to be surly and cheeky too, but as soon as we were well on the road we showed them the error of their ways in the only way a Hottentot can be taught such things, and they became extremely civil. The road was new to me, via Kalkfontein, Lekkersing, and Chubiesses, but a description of it would only weary the reader, almost as much as the journey did us. Where it was not deep sand it was rough rocks, and for the first two days we were incessantly sticking or overturning, unpacking or repacking the cart. On the fourth day, in the middle of a wide plain of heavy sand, we ran into soft dunes in which the wheels sank up to the hubs, and here we stuck hopelessly. The oxen were suffering from thirst and would pull no more, the heat was overpowering, and our own water very short, so we decided to send half the load on and dump the other till the oxen had drunk and returned. Dittmer (my partner) and I tossed to see who should remain with the dump, and I lost, and during the rest of a boiling day I sat under a white umbrella which the missionary had forced on me, and which I was now extremely grateful for.
The team turned up again next day, refreshed, and we got through to Doornpoort, where there was still a gallon or two of water that the oxen had left.
We had fully intended reaching Zendling’s Drift by Christmas, but here we were, still a long distance from Kuboos even, and it was Christmas Eve. At any rate I determined to reach Kuboos for some part of Christmas, for there at least would be clean water and a pleasant tree, where Ransson, Poulley, and I had spent our Christmas Day a year back.
Early in the morning, therefore, I struck out ahead of the cart, on which Dittmer had now made a perch, and by midday had skirted the big granite range and was in sight of the tiny Hottentot church and few pondhoeks of the little mission. Better, I could see the water and my tree, and pressed forward as men hasten homeward on such a day. Shade, rest, and plenty of water—after all I should be able to enjoy my Christmas! I reached the first little pool amongst the granite boulders; it was crystal-clear and ice-cold, and I drank deep, and did not envy any man stronger Christmas tipple. Then I made for the tree—almost as welcome as the water in this barren land—and promised myself a pleasant sleep till the cart came along.
But to my intense surprise, there under my tree lay three big troopers of the C.M.P.
I nearly dropped with surprise, for I had never met a white man near this spot before, and considered that tree to be my own particular property. I felt hurt!
They never moved, so I said, “Hullo!”
The nearest one opened one eye—“Hullo!” he echoed; to the others, “Here’s Rip van Winkle.”
Well, I suppose I looked something like it!—a week’s beard, and the grime collected in hauling empty oil-barrels about, greasing cart-wheels, sleeping on Mother Earth, etc., being added to by the blood of a steenbok that I had shot and carried slung across my shoulders.
They turned out to be a party of mounted police under Lieutenant Burgess, which had been hurried through the wild country from Upington to Zendling’s Drift on news of trouble there. They had been to the Drift, found that the Germans had decided not to venture across, and were returning to “civilisation” when I found them under my tree.