Travelling in South Africa is occasionally interrupted by sudden storms of rain which convert dry beds of streams into roaring torrents, and perennial rivers into devastating floods.
At the Great Fish River I came on a specimen of the mighty power of water in the ruins of a splendid bridge. The great floods of the previous year had carried one-half of it away. The other half—denuded of its flooring and all its woodwork, and standing out against the sky a mere skeleton of iron girders—still connected the left bank of the river with the massive tower of masonry in the middle. From this tower to the other bank was a gulf impassable to horse or cart. The great river itself flows in a deep channel. It was still somewhat flooded. From its high banks we saw it roaring more than forty feet beneath the level of the bridge. It was clear to the most ignorant eye that fording the stream was impossible. I looked inquiringly at the driver.
“You’ll have to go over on the rope,” he said, with a sardonic smile.
“The rope?” said I, with an earnest gaze at the impassable gulf.
“Yes, the rope. There’s a man crossing now.”
I looked again, and observed something like a cobweb on the sky between the central pier and the opposite bank. There was a black spot that resembled a spider moving slowly along the cobweb. It was a fellow-man!
“And the mails and the luggage?” I asked.
“Go over same way.”
“The cart and horses?”
“Don’t go over at all. Get fresh ones on other side. There was once a box on the river for hauling them over, but it’s been damaged.”