The Major and his party had landed the previous morning at Mossel Bay, with all their goods and chattels; and now in front of a long one-storied building, dignified by the name of “Moorhead’s Royal Star and Garter Hotel,” two well-built white canvas tilted Cape-carts, fresh from the hands of Mr Muter of Berge Street, were drawn up, each being horsed by a team of six mules hired from the postmaster of the district.
One cart was packed with a variety of useful articles—from a saddle to a screw-driver—ordered by Captain Jamieson from the Cape Town storekeepers; whilst in the other cart the Major and his companions were to travel.
Under each cart was slung a strong “witte els” (a soft, tough wood) box, containing axes, hammers, saws, and other tools, a supply of nails and screws, straps and buckles, a small coil of “half-inch,” and some stout cord and twine; so that in the event of a break-down, repairs might be executed on the spot Major Flinders and his faithful henchman Patrick Keown had travelled too much in South Africa to think of starting on a long journey without being prepared for emergencies.
As the crow flies, the distance from Mossel Bay to Ralfontein was rather more than one hundred and eighty miles, but by road it was nearer two hundred and fifty. The journey there was to be got over as rapidly as possible without unduly pressing the teams, and there were to be no unnecessary stoppages by the way. The return journey would be a much more leisurely affair, for it was the Major’s intention to ride from Ralfontein to Rondebosch, a distance of at least three hundred and fifty miles (instead of returning to Mossel Bay, and from thence by sea to Cape Town), and to take his own time on the road, so as to bring home his equine purchases in good condition.
For the first two or three days after leaving Mossel Bay our travellers had an easy time and were not called upon to rough it in the smallest degree. The road they followed—one of the best in the colony—led through a beautiful fertile district, studded with prosperous-looking farm-houses around which vineyards and orange groves flourished in wonderful luxuriance. At these farms they were lodged and entertained with a hospitality worthy of the patriarchal ages, so that, as yet, there was no “camping out.”
Soon, however, the country presented a wilder, but no less beautiful aspect, the road became a mere track, and our friends found themselves journeying across tracts of rough, uncultivated land, through wooded valleys and steep rocky defiles, aglow with the brilliant crimson and amber blossoms of the aloe; here for miles they did not meet a human creature, or see a house of any description, and the silence of these vast solitudes grew almost oppressive.
On the evening of the fourth day they arrived at a romantic spot five-and-twenty miles from any civilised habitation—the nearest being a German mission station at Ryk’s Drift—and here the Major decided to outspan, beneath the shade of a fine tope of trees, near to a “donga,” or dry watercourse. It was a most suitable halting-place! A tiny “spruit,” or streamlet, trickled amidst the reeds and boulders that lay all along the “donga,” and crossing the track close by the “bivouac,” formed a shallow, but clear pool, at the foot of a grassy eminence, which was topped by a thicket of silver trees, aloes, and flowering shrubs.
On every side the various tribes of the vegetable kingdom throve luxuriously, perfuming the air; whilst in the distance the foliage and coppice presented a thousand lively and variegated tints most pleasing to the eye.
The mules having been knee-haltered and turned out to graze, under charge of the Hottentot, Black William, the Major and his companions set to work to light a fire and put the camp-kettle on to boil, and before long they were discussing some excellent broiled venison and ship’s biscuit, washed down by copious draughts of black coffee.
“This is what I call uncommonly jolly!” exclaimed Tom as they sat round the camp fire after supper; “ever so much better than putting up at a farm-house.”