Part 2, Chapter XVIII.
Ride in the Winterberg.
I have lately ridden within the space of a fortnight—and resting half that fortnight—two hundred and fifty miles, through the country lately infested, and still haunted, by the savage enemy. It presents a glorious contrast to last year; the hand of Providence has put aside the hand of man. The majestic Winterberg mountain, nearly nine thousand feet high, rose before us in our ride, green almost to its summit. The valleys beneath us, as we passed from one mountain-top to the other, were “smiling with corn;” the grass on the plains waved as in our English meadow-lands; the woodman’s axe rang in the forests, near the scene of many a bloody fray; and, although small groups of Kaffirs doubtless looked down upon us from many “a leafy nook,” we passed up the steep ascents in the midst of deep jungle and impervious thickets, unmolested. On the road to Fort Hare, a spot was pointed out to me, on which a Hottentot waggon-driver had breathed his last. He was shot by the enemy, who had carried off his oxen, scarcely a month before. A fortnight after I had travelled that way, with but slight escort,—Colonel Campbell, 91st, being the only one of our party who was armed,—a man, formerly of the Royal Artillery, was killed by an assegai, thrown by an unseen hand, from some huts formerly occupied by some of Macomo’s tribe.
In spite of terrible associations, my ride in the Winterberg Mountains was a peaceful one, and full of interest. The monkeys swung from bough to bough, the canaries sang their untiring melodies, the bell-bird chimed its solemn-sounding note, and there was little to break the calm of the scene save the advance of the Christian Chief, Kama, with a dozen dusky followers, all armed and mounted, on his way to Graham’s Town.
The Winterberg is a district taking its name from the mountains so called—berg meaning mountain, in Dutch. The tops of these mountains are often covered with snow. The close of the first day’s journey from Graham’s Town brought us to the Koonap River, which we found almost impassable for horses. The troopers of the dragoon orderlies were towed over in the wake of the boat, trembling, snorting, kicking, some turning heels uppermost, and others at last submitting to their fate, and falling exhausted on the bank on reaching it. The river roared and tumbled, and the passage across, in the old boat, with its uncertain rope, would have frightened fine ladies. But people must cease to be fine ladies in Africa. Some of our horses were left picqueted with a guard of soldiers, and I confess to some uneasiness during the night, as I lay listening to the noisy torrent below our little inn, half expecting to hear shots exchanged between the guard and the enemy. The inn itself was a “sign of the times.” The host, Mr Tomlinson, an old Life Guardsman, had made the place defensible, and stood his ground during the heat of the war. My bed-room window, hung with white curtains of primitive English dimity, was still bricked up half way, and travellers passing by rested their arms against the loop-holed walls, and told of cattle lost and Kaffirs killed, with an air of as little concern as they would have worn in relating the prices of a country fair.
I was not sorry to hear, the next morning, that our steeds had neither been stolen by the enemy nor swept down the river.
After a night’s rest at Fort Beaufort, we left it, on the 12th of November, for Fort Hare, a strange-looking garrison, consisting of innumerable formal houses of a single room each, reminding one of the account of some barracks in England, in which an officer can lie in his bed, stir the fire, open the window, and shut the door, without much alteration in his position.
The scenery around Fort Hare is very grand, and not at all in accordance with the prim little edifices of “wattle and daub” which form precise squares and most unpicturesque alleys of a pale gingerbread hue. In approaching Fort Hare, we were obliged to plunge our horses into the Tyumie stream, amidst a crowd of Kaffir girls, who were swimming, laughing, and shouting to each other, like a bevy of sable Naiads, from the bashes and the boughs overhanging the long-disputed waters.
On the 15th I started, under the care of the Rev. Mr Beaver, from Fort Beaufort, for my ride among the mountains. Colonel Campbell, of the 91st, accompanied us on the first day’s journey, beguiling the day with many graphic anecdotes of the war; and the rest, beside some clear spring, after passing up the steep ascents between the Blinkwater and Post Retief, was delightful. This Blinkwater post was ably defended, during the war, against a hundred and fifty of the enemy at least, by Serjeant Snodgrass, of the 91st Regiment, and six or eight soldiers. Serjeant Snodgrass was honourably mentioned in general orders, in consequence.
Another rest at Retief, and we advanced the next day. As drew near the noble Winterberg, it presented the appearance of a huge elephant with a howdah (of basaltic rock) on its back; a fringe of grey stone round it gave an idea of its trappings. Our destination was Glenthorn, the residence of Mr Pringle, one of that family of Yair, familiarly mentioned by Sir Walter Scott. My short stay, of barely two days, at Glenthorn, prevented me from seeing much that was interesting; but a Bushman’s cave tempted me, in spite of sun, dust, wind, and a “tempest coming up,” to scramble through a little forest of shrubs. In this haunt, for it could scarcely be called a cave, we discovered some of those curious paintings which present a singular memento of these creatures of an almost extinct race. I have seen various facsimiles of such drawings published, but the subjects they were intended to represent have been seldom sufficiently defined to illustrate their original meaning. The one we saw was perfect in its representation of an eland and buffalo hunt. One strange pigmy creature sat sideways on horseback, in full chase of the game; another stood at bay, as if to prevent the animals from leaving the path into which they had turned; and others were awaiting them with their poisoned bows and arrows. (Note 1.) These drawings were done in variously coloured ochres—brown, red, yellow, and some black. This lovely spot was more like the dwelling-place of fairies than of the hideous aborigines of South Africa. A stream rippled under the trees, and the green turf was spangled with flowers of many colours. The monkeys had doubtless deserted it at our approach, but their ropes (a peculiar kind of creeper, hanging like swings from the yellow-wood trees) attested their constant presence there. We tried to imagine the Bushmen resting here after their day’s hunt, and recording its events on the scarp of rock facing us, at the head of the wooded eminence, now almost roofed in with tall trees and parasitical plants. Here they prepared the poisons, for madness, disease, or death, as suited their wild purposes, from the wild bulbs which grew in such bright profusion—deceitful things! Now, the birds were singing above us in the sunshine. The Bushman’s foresight with regard to provision, in this uncertain country, might afford a lesson to the white man. If they cannot consume at a meal the little lizards, locusts, etc, on which they prey, they impale them, leaving them on the thorny bushes, to return to when in need. (This is the system of the butcher-bird.)