By Veldt and Kopje

by W. C. Scully

We wandered on, taking our journey easily, resting as suited our mood whenever we reached some particularly charming spot. Indeed, it almost seemed as though the wild creatures had the same aesthetic sense as ourselves, for it was almost invariably at such places that we found game in the greatest plenty. The delight of those days is, and I trust ever will be an abiding remembrance. We slept comparatively little, for sleep seemed but a waste of time, and it was better to lie awake under the soft stars or the regal moon, listening to the wild sounds of the desert, than to waste our precious hours in barren unconsciousness. Whilst our three pack oxen, tied to a tree hard by and surrounded by a fence of thorn-trees, chewed the cud of plenty or drew the deep, sighing breath of bovine alarm, we would lie watching the flames leaping from the kindled logs, and listening to the grunting of the lions, the booming of the ostriches, or the screaming of the hyaenas. We did not dread the lions, for we knew that where game was plentiful the king killer of the waste seldom troubled man or his cattle. Our natives could always be trusted to keep the fires alight. They were continually full of meat, and therefore happy.

I may as well say at once that we never reached Lake Ngami. As a matter of fact, we did not go much more than two-thirds of the way to it. We dawdled upon our course to such an extent that we were obliged to return from a spot only seven days’ march beyond the Lutyahau River.

Hunters familiar with the regions indicated have all heard of the bitter wells, with the unpronounceable Bushman name, not a great many days’ journey from Anderson’s Vley. The water found in these wells is extremely poisonous to Europeans. A few Bushmen, who have habituated themselves to its use, are always to be found in the vicinity, but woe betide the unhappy human creature of any other breed who slakes his thirst at this poisonous spot; he will almost assuredly die if obliged to drink the water for three days in succession. This spot can only be visited by hunters with safety upon the rare occasions when the rains have fallen so heavily on the surrounding country that water is obtainable in the sand-filled rocky hollows, of which this area of the desert is full. Taking advantage of the splendid condition of the country, we determined to make a détour to the southward for the purpose of visiting this little-frequented spot.

We arrived late one afternoon, and found the place deserted, although showing signs of having recently been inhabited by human beings. We knew what had taken place—the Bushmen had fled in alarm at our approach, but we felt sure of meeting some of them within the next few days.

The locality was desolate in the extreme, for the rich vegetation ceased on every side within about a mile of the muddy puddles. These formed a small group in a shallow depression some hundred yards in diameter. The surrounding soil was evidently strongly charged with some alkaline substance, which lay thickly on the surface in the form of white powder. The water had a brownish tinge where it oozed out of the soil, and gave forth an unpleasant smell, as though of decaying vegetable matter.

We soon found sweet rain-water in a donga close by, so decided to rest for a few days. Rest is hardly the right term to use, for we worked exceedingly hard. Each member of the party had his own favourite game. Dick was not content with the slaughter of anything less than the King of Beasts, Sam enjoyed shooting koodoos more than anything else, whilst the slaying of the gentle giraffe brought the keenest joy to my hunter’s heart. Consequently, we three, although the best of chums, seldom hunted together. Each preferred to take a couple of “boys” and follow the chase of that which his soul panted for.

On the day following our arrival at the bitter wells I took my rifle and wandered forth towards a considerable clump of comparatively large trees, which could be descried about seven miles away to the westward, and where I expected to meet with my favourite game. It was nearly midday when I reached the trees, and just upon entering the grove I was astonished to see the spoor of a large sandal leading along a game-path. The spoor was certainly not that of a Bushman, its length being too great and the impression too heavy. I pointed it out to one of my followers, who uttered a low exclamation of surprise, and then we followed the track silently into the thickest part of the grove.

On turning a sharp corner we suddenly stood still, for a small hut, or “scherm,” constructed of bushes and fragments of skin, stood before us. It was not so much a hut as a kind of movable screen such as the Hottentots use—one that could be shifted with little difficulty to meet the changing wind. Its back was towards us. After pausing for a few seconds, I stepped forward and looked under the roof of the structure from the other side.

Again I stood still, my eyes being riveted by the strangest-looking human creature it has ever been my lot to behold. The man was reclining on a few jackal skins, and resting on his elbow. He was quite naked except for a tanned hide, which was tied with a thong around his middle. In spite of the dark and rough condition of his skin, his long matted hair and beard clearly showed him to be an European. The hair hung over his shoulders in a white fleece, and the beard lay upon his chest in a long silvery tangle. His face was a striking one; the forehead was high and intellectual, the nose prominent and somewhat hooked, the eyes were dark and deep, and gleamed splenetically from under the shaggy and prominent brows.

My two followers ran back with exclamations of terror, and crouched behind a bush about thirty yards away. I myself, feeling more astonishment than alarm, looked hard at the man, who gazed back fixedly without the least appearance of surprise or embarrassment. Then I took a step nearer and spoke.