“Let’s see,” said the Reefer, “this is Sunday; sleep here Wednesday night and we’ll start Thursday.”
So the boy packed up his few belongings, stored them in the tent of a friend, and put in an appearance at the Reefer’s tent at the appointed time. The Reefer was not at home, but he turned up, more or less drunk, in the middle of the night.
All preparations had been made; a month’s “tucker” for two had been provided. This included flour, tea, a little sugar and salt, and a few simple remedies for use in the event of sickness. The goods were scientifically packed in two “swags”—that of the Reefer weighing about ninety pounds and that of the boy about thirty. The Reefer carried a pick, a shovel and a pan, in which the limits of combined efficiency and lightness had been reached; the boy a lifting-block, Westley-Richards rifle and a hundred cartridges. Each took, besides, a water-bottle, a cooking “billy,” a blanket, a spare flannel shirt and two pairs of thick woollen socks.
Their course led down the valley of the Blyde River, through the loveliest imaginable scenery. Down and down the valley seemed to sink among the convoluted mountains that are so rich in forest, crag and sounding waterfall. After crossing a divide the deserted site of the village of Ohrigstad was passed. Here was the scene of a tragedy. The township had flourished, the land was fertile, the surrounding a hunters’ paradise. All went well for a time; then came fever; within a few weeks all the settlers went down. The majority died; the survivors were rescued and removed to a healthier locality, where they founded the town of Lydenburg. In blue-books published years afterwards, the abandonment of Ohrigstad was erroneously attributed to fear of the Bapedi—natives located in a neighbouring mountain range.
The Reefer was a silent man, who was obsessed by one idea—the finding of gold where none had previously been found. The one and only thing which gave him pleasure was to make a “strike.” But the discovery once declared and made the object of a “rush,” the thing immediately lost its charm. Then he would sell out, usually for far less than the value of his claim, and once more follow the rainbow. This man’s life had literally been spent on the prospecting trail. He had made several rich strikes of gold, not alone in Africa, but in America—North and South. In those days the Klondyke was unknown, but the Reefer had trailed to what he called “the head waters of the Arctic,” and had found rich gold in the Yukon district, from which he was driven back by the pitiless cold. He knew every creek and placer in the alluvial fields of California.
The boy was nineteen years of age, but did not look it. He was lithe, small-boned and tall, with fair hair, blue eyes and a face that gained him the good graces of some women. Thrown on the world when quite a child, he had known phases of sin and suffering not usually experienced by the young. It was a strain of idealism and an inherent passionate love of nature that enabled him to save his soul alive. In his ear the voice of the wilderness was ever sounding. Whenever he managed to save enough money to buy sufficient supplies, he would wander away into the vague, unknown country lying east and north of the fields, in search of gold, hunting and adventure. The first he never found.
Down and down still sank the valley towards its junction with the Olifant—studded throughout its enchanting length with dark green patches of virgin forest, strung like emeralds upon the chain of a crystal stream. The summer rains had been heavy, so every ravine cleaving the hills on either side was vocal with impetuous water. The wild creatures gazed at them from the high ledges or crashed unseen through the underwood at their approach. The chanting call of the brown falcons wheeling among the crags sounded like a trumpet bidding them go forward into the unknown, where dwelt fortune and romance.
They camped each night under trees centuries old. How the leaping flames lit up the groined boughs spreading from hoar-ancient trunks, revealing depths of mysterious shadow in the greenery! When the flames died down, how the restful darkness closed in, full of rich suggestion! These nights were so full of rapture that the boy could hardly sleep: it seemed a sin to waste such hours in unconsciousness. Often the dawn would find him watching and praying with that best kind of prayer—the uplifting of the heart to the plane of nature’s most exalted harmonies. Then he would sink into an hour’s dreamless slumber, to be awakened by a shove from the Reefer’s friendly foot, and to find a steaming pannikin of tea ready at the side of his couch.