The big dune at Aar Pan loomed up temptingly; it did not appear more than an hour’s walk, and remembering the thunder-clouds and apparent rainfall we had seen in that direction, we were for a moment tempted to make for it, but sanity prevailed—for to have gone there and found no water would have meant death; as we afterwards found, the distance between the Salt Pan and the water-pit there took a good four hours to negotiate.
We therefore made for the north-west edge and climbed the highest dune, whence we hoped to distinguish the big dune near our camp, but could not identify it. It was nearly sunset, we were utterly worn out and tortured with thirst, and could only talk in a whisper, but few words were necessary. We had traversed one side and the base of an elongated triangle, and to find our camp we must complete it, steering so as to cut, if possible, our spoor of the day before, and the long straat leading to our camp. Had we been able to rest the night and look for it by daylight, this would have been child’s play, but we could not disguise the fact that we were almost at the end of our tether, and unless we did the journey in the cool of the night we should never live through the heat of another day. It was now nearly sundown, and we realised that at any rate we could not hope to reach our old spoors before the light failed. However, we had to push on, and, marking our course very carefully, we started again.
One dog limped behind, the other poor brute lay dying, and we gave it a merciful bullet. We calculated that our camp lay about twelve miles north-east; twelve miles—a trivial distance to a pedestrian on a good road, but here in the dunes a difficult day’s march, even if we could make our way to it direct, which was extremely doubtful.
One thing buoyed us up somewhat, and that was the belief that our non-arrival in camp would cause them to light a beacon-fire on the high dune, and as night fell, again and again, we were deceived by the bright stars that came up over the horizon, twinkling so brightly—even low down and directly over the dunes—in the clear atmosphere, that for a time they appeared exactly like a blazing fire.
The night was by no means dark, but even so we stumbled terribly amongst the tufts of toa grass, low salt-bushes, and the numerous meer-cat holes, and by ten o’clock van Reenen, whose feet were bleeding, and who was suffering worse than any of us from thirst, threw himself down and said he would go no farther. He was light-headed and raving for water, and we could do nothing to help him. So, after an anxious discussion, we decided to rest for an hour or two and slept for awhile, dreaming of cool, sparkling water. Du Toit roused me or I might be sleeping there now. My head was throbbing wildly, and my lips, tongue, and throat like the dryest of leather; indeed, it seemed as though every vital organ in me was drying up, and I felt that I should soon go mad. I could make no articulate sound till Du Toit gave me a few leaves of sorrel he had found, and which moistened my tongue somewhat. We had to kick resentment into van Reenen, who lay like a log, and who was in a very bad way. At last he staggered up, and, drawing his hunting-knife, cut his boots off and threw them away. This discarding of clothing is a bad sign with a man suffering from thirst; many a dead man had been found in the dunes, stark naked, his boots and clothing scattered along his staggering trail. But van Reenen had simply done it on account of his bleeding, aching feet, and, in spite of thorns, got on better without them.
Thus, painfully and with frequent rests, we toiled on, till about midnight we came to a long straat which led the right way, and which we fondly hoped might have been the path of our outward journey. But a patient search from side to side of it showed no spoor; and now began a heart-breaking period, for we found that a whole series of these straats lay side by side in this direction, all of them unmarked by human footprints. Tortured and anxious, we began to doubt whether we were not out of the track altogether, and whether we had not passed it, and I remember that I at least was for making due west towards the Molopo—a good eighteen hours’ trek for a strong man, and which we should never have reached. But Du Toit persisted: we could not be more than an hour or two from camp, and he would yet find the spoor. Again and again we fired our rifles and listened in vain for an answering shot, again and again we climbed the highest dunes, and gazed into the night for a fire that never shone there; now one, now the other, would fall and lie there till pulled up, but somehow we managed to struggle on a bit farther.
And at length, when despair had absolutely seized us, and van Reenen lagged behind me and I lagged behind Du Toit, I saw him again light a match and search the sand, and this time there came a hoarse cry. He had found the spoor; and revived, and with the terrible fear and anxiety lifted from us, we threw ourselves down and rested, knowing that we were saved. By daybreak our terrible thirst had conquered fatigue and we moved on again, and within an hour our rifle-shots were answered, and our “boy,” Gert Louw, was on his way to meet us with blessed, Heaven-sent nectar in the shape of a canvas bag of muddy water.
The fire had been lit, but not on the big dune.
Now, we had only been forty-eight hours away from camp and a bare thirty-six without water, yet we were nearly dead, and without a shadow of a doubt should have been dead of thirst before another sunset without water. Yet I have read of men living four or five days under like circumstances. The experience taught us several things. In future no broad, pleasant straat ever tempted us in the wrong direction, we carried more water, even for short trips, and took compass bearings more accurately. Moreover we set the “boys” to work collecting dry wood, and made them stack it on the summit of the big dune, where a fire would have been seen from the Salt Pan, and where their laziness had prevented them from taking it before.