Chapter Eleven.
By the Waters of Marah.
“And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters of Marah, for they were bitter.”—Exodus XV. 23.
One
It was in the old and, by some at least, ever-to-be-regretted days of the ox-wagon that the following strange experience befell me. These were days when the Boers were invariably hospitable to strangers (who did not arrive on foot), when the natives had still some respect for the white man, and when game was still to be had for the hunting on the high plains of South Africa.
We had left our wagons at Shoshong, in what is now Kama’s country, and struck out with three pack oxen and six “boys” towards the north-west, vaguely hoping to reach Lake Ngami. At that time, a quarter of a century ago, little was known of that interior which has now become a sort of Cook’s Tourist Route, and consequently the traveller had always the vague charm of the unknown around him, whilst the fluttering hem of the garment of the fascinating nymph, whose name is Adventure, gleamed in every thicket. Maps, it is true, existed, but were a distinct disadvantage to the wanderer, for the reason that all those extant were fearfully and ingeniously incorrect. We had once nearly lost our lives through trusting to an indication of a supposed water-place upon a brand new chart prepared by a distinguished traveller, who believed every yarn told him, and who, it is now well known, did not visit half the places he described from alleged personal observation.
Dick Wharton, Sam Logan and I formed the party. We were all young, in good health, and keen shots. We hardly expected to reach the lake, but we knew that there was plenty of shooting to be had in the direction in which it lay, and that was all that we particularly cared about.
The country, usually a grim desert, was now a smiling garden. For two seasons rain had fallen in phenomenal abundance, and the wayward bounty of Heaven had caused the long-dormant vegetation to spring up over the length and breadth of the land. The flowers were scattered everywhere in bewildering beauty, and the insects held constant revel in the mild sunshine. Water was to be found by digging, hardly a foot deep, in every donga, and all the game in Africa seemed to have collected in the northern zone of the Kalihari.