South Africa; vol II. by Anthony Trollope - HTML preview

CHAPTER VI.
 THE TRANSVAAL.—PRETORIA TO THE DIAMOND FIELDS.

ON the 1st of October I and my friend started from Pretoria for the Diamond Fields, having spent a pleasant week at the capital of the Transvaal. There was, however, one regret. I had not seen Sir Theophilus Shepstone though I had been entertained at his house. He, during the time, had been absent on one of those pilgrimages which Colonial Governors make through their domains, and would be absent so long that I could not afford the time to wait his return. I should much have liked to discuss with him the question of the annexation, and to have heard from his own lips, as I had heard from those of Mr. Burgers, a description of what had passed at the interviews between them. I should have been glad, also, to have learned from himself what he had thought of the danger to which the Dutch community had been subject from the Kafirs and Zulus,—from Secocoeni and Cetywayo,—at the moment of his coming. But the tale which was not told to me by him was, I think, told with accuracy by some of those who were with him. I have spoken my opinion very plainly, and I hope not too confidently of the affair, and I will only add to that now an assurance of my conviction that had I been in Sir T. Shepstone’s place and done as he did, I should have been proud of the way I had served my country.

We started in our cart with our horses as we thought in grand condition. While at Pretoria we had been congratulated on the way in which we had made our purchases and travelled the road surmounting South African difficulties as though we had been at the work all our lives. We had refilled our commissariat chest, and with the exception that my companion had shied a bottle of brandy,—joint property,—at the head of a dog that would bite him,—not me,—as we were packing the cart, there had been as yet no misfortune. Our Cape-boy driver had not once been drunk and nothing material had been lost or broken. We got off at 11 A.M.; and at half past one P.M.,—having travelled about fifteen miles in the normal two and a half hours,—we spanned out and shared our lunch with a very hungry-looking Dutchman who squatted himself on his haunches close to our little fire. He was herding cattle and seemed to be very poor and hungry. I imagined him to be some unfortunate who was working for low wages at a distance from his home. But I found him to be the lord of the soil, the owner of the herd, and the possessor of a homestead about a mile distant. I have no doubt he would have given me what he had to give if I had called at his house. As it was he seemed to be delighted with fried bacon and biscuits, and was aroused almost to enthusiasm over a little drop of brandy and water.

On our road during this day we stopped at an accommodation house, as it is called in the country,—or small Inn, kept by an Englishman. Here before the door I saw flying a flag intended to represent the colours of the Transvaal Dutch Republic. The Englishman, who was rather drunk and very civil, apologized for this by explaining that he had his own patriotic feelings, but that as it was his lot in life to live by the Boers it was necessary that he should please the Boers. This was, however, the only flag of the Republic which I saw during my journey through the country, and I am inclined to think that our countryman had mistaken the signs of the time. I have however to acknowledge in his favour that he offered to make us a present of some fresh butter.

We passed that night at the house of a Boer, who was represented to me as being a man of wealth and repute in the country and as being peculiarly averse to English rule,—Dutch and republican to his heart’s core. And I was told soon after by a party who had travelled over the same road, among whom there were two Dutchmen, that he had been very uncourteous to them. No man could have been more gracious than he was to us, who had come in as strangers upon his hospitality, with all our wants for ourselves our servants and our horses. I am bound to say that his house was very dirty, and the bed of a nature to make the flesh creep, and to force a British occupant of the chamber to wrap himself round with further guards of his own in the shape of rugs and great coats, rather than divest himself of clothes before he would lay himself down. And the copious mess of meat which was prepared for the family supper was not appetising. But nothing could be more grandly courteous than the old man’s manner, or kinder than that of his wife. With this there was perhaps something of an air of rank,—just a touch of a consciousness of superiority,—as there might be with some old Earl at home who in the midst of his pleasant amenities could not quite forget his ancestors. Our host could not speak a word of English,—nor we of Dutch; but an Englishman was in the house,—one of the schoolmasters of whom I have before spoken,—and thus we were able to converse. Not a word was said about the annexation;—but much as to the farming prospects of the country. He had grown rich and was content with the condition of the land.

He was heartily abused to us afterwards by the party which contained the two Dutchmen as being a Boer by name and a boor by nature, as being a Boer all round and down to the ground. These were not Hollanders from Holland, but Dutchmen lately imported from the Cape Colony;—and as such were infinitely more antagonistic to the real Boer than would be any Englishman out from Europe. To them he was a dirty, ignorant, and arrogant Savage. To him they were presumptuous, new-fangled, vulgar upstarts. They were men of culture and of sense and of high standing in the new country,—but between them and him there were no sympathies.

I think that the English who have now taken the Transvaal will be able, after a while, to rule the Boers and to extort from them that respect without which there can be no comfort between the governors and the governed;—but the work must be done by English and not by Dutch hands. The Dutch Boer will not endure over him either a reforming Hollander from Europe, or a spick-and-span Dutch Africander from the Cape Colony. The reforming Hollander and the spick-and-span Dutch Africander are very intelligent people. It is not to be supposed that I am denying them any good qualities which are to be found in Englishmen. But the Boer does not love them.

Soon after starting from our aristocratic friend’s house one of our horses fell sick. He was the one that kicked,—a bright bay little pony,—and in spite of his kicking had been the favourite of the team. We dined that day about noon at a Boer’s house, and there we did all that we knew to relieve the poor brute. We gave him chlorodyne and alum,—in accordance with advice which had been given to us for our behoof along the road,—and when we started we hitched him on behind, and went the last stage for that day with a unicorn team. Then we gave him whisky, but it was of no use. That night he could not feed, and early the next morning he laid himself down when he was brought out of the stable and died at my feet. It was our first great misfortune. Our other three horses were not the better or the brighter for all the work they had done, and would certainly not be able to do what would be required of them without a fourth companion.

The place we were now at is called Wonder Fontein, and is remarkable, not specially for any delightfully springing run of water, but for a huge cave, which is supposed to go some miles underground. We went to visit it just at sunset, and being afraid of returning in the dark, had not time to see all of it that is known. But we climbed down into the hole, and lit our candles and wandered about for a time. Here and there, in every direction, there were branches and passages running under ground which had hitherto never been explored. The son of the Boer who owned the farm at which we were staying, was with us, and could guide us through certain ways;—but other streets of the place were unknown to him, and, as he assured us, had never yet been visited by man. The place was full of bats, but other animals we saw none. In getting down, the path was narrow, steep, low and disagreeable enough;—but when once we were in the cave we could walk without stooping. At certain periods when the rains had been heavy the caves would become full of water,—and then they would drain themselves when the rains had ceased. It was a hideously ugly place; and most uninteresting were it not that anything not customary interests us to some extent. The caves were very unlike those in the Cango district, which I described in the first volume.

At Wonder Fontein there were six or seven guests besides the very large family with which the Boer and his wife were blessed, and we could not therefore have bedrooms apiece;—nor even beds. I and my young friend had one assigned to us, while the Attorney General of the Colony, who was on circuit and to whom we had given a lift in our cart to relieve him for a couple of days of the tedium of travelling with the Judge and the Sheriff by ox waggon, had a bench assigned to him in a corner of the room. In such circumstances a man lies down, but does not go to bed. We lay down,—and got up at break of day, to see our poor little horse die.

On leaving these farm houses the Boers, if asked, will make a charge for the accommodation afforded, generally demanding about 5s. for the supper, a night’s rest, and breakfast if the traveller chooses to wait for it. Others, English and Germans, will take nothing for their hospitality. Both the one and the other expect to be paid for what the horses may consume; and we thought we observed that forage with the English and Germans was dearer than with the Boers,—so that the cost came to much the same with the one as with the other. At the English houses,—or German,—it was possible to go to bed. In a Boer’s establishment we did not venture to do more than lie down.

Starting on the following day with our three horses we reached Potchefstroom, which, though not the capital, is the largest town in the Transvaal. The road all along had been of the same nature, and the country nearly of the same kind as that we had seen before reaching Pretoria. Here and there it was stony,—but for the most part capable of cultivation. None of it, however, was cultivated with the exception of small patches round the farm houses. These would be at any rate ten miles distant one from each other, and probably more. The roads are altogether unmade, and the “spruits” or streams are unbridged. But the traffic, though unfrequent, has been sufficient to mark the way and to keep it free from grass. Travelling in wet weather must often be impossible,—and in windy weather very disagreeable. We were most fortunate in avoiding both mud and dust, either of which, to the extent in which they sometimes prevail in the Transvaal, might have made our journey altogether impossible.

At Potchefstroom we found a decent hotel kept by an Englishman,—at which we could go to bed, though not indulged with the luxury of a room for each of us. The assizes were going on and we found ourselves to be lucky in not being forced to have a third with us. Here our first care was to buy a horse so as once again to complete our team. We felt that if we loudly proclaimed our want, the price of horses in Potchefstroom would be raised at once;—and yet it was difficult to take any step without proclaiming our want. We had only one day to stay in the town, and could not therefore dally with the difficulty as is generally the proper thing to do when horse-flesh is concerned. So we whispered our need into the landlord’s ear and he undertook to stand our friend,—acknowledging, however, that a horse in a hurry was of all things the most difficult to be had at Potchefstroom. Nevertheless within two hours of our arrival an entire team of four horses was standing in the hotel yard, from which we were to be allowed to choose one for £30. I had refused to have anything to do with the buying in regard to terms; but consented to select the one which should be bought, if we could agree as to price. When I went forth to make the choice I found that in spite of our secrecy a congregation of horse-fanciers had come to see what was being done. Four leaner, poorer, skinnier brutes I never saw standing together with halters round their necks;—but out of the four I did pick one, guided by the bigness of his leg bones and by the freedom of his pace. Everybody was against me,—our driver preferring a younger horse, and the vendor assuring me that in passing over an old grey animal I was altogether cutting my own throat. But I was firm, and then left the conclave, desiring my young friend to go into the money question.

The seller at first seemed to think that the price was a thing settled. Had he not told the landlord that we might select one for £30;—and had not the selection been made? He assumed a look of injured innocence as though the astute Briton were endeavouring to get the better of the poor Dutchman most dishonourably. Eventually, however, he consented to accept £23, and the money was paid. Then came the criticism of the bystanders thick and hard upon us. £23 for that brute! Was it true that we had given the man £23 for an animal worth at the most £7 10s.? They had allowed the seller to have his luck while the sale was going on, but could not smother their envy when the money was absolutely in his pocket. However we had our horse, whose capabilities were much better than his appearance, and who stood to us gallantly in some after difficulties in which his co-operation was much needed.

Potchefstroom may probably contain something over 2,000 white inhabitants. In saying this, however, I have nothing but guess work to guide me. It is a town covering a very large area, with streets nearly a mile in length;—but here again there is a great deficiency of houses. In some of those streets a wanderer might fancy himself to be roaming through some remote green lane in England, overshadowed through its whole length by weeping willows. The road way under his feet will be exactly that of a green lane;—here a rut, and there a meandering path worn by children’s feet, and grass around him everywhere. Now and again he will come across a cottage,—hardly more than a cabin,—with half a dozen dirty children at the door. Such are the back streets at Potchefstroom. And here too, as at Pretoria, there are hedges of roses, long rows of crowded rose-bushes round the little houses of the better class. There are spots so picturesque as almost to make the wanderer fancy that it would be pleasant to live in a place so pretty, so retired, and so quiet. But weeping willows and rose hedges would, I fear, after a time become insufficient, and the wanderer who had chosen to sojourn here under the influence of these attractions, might wish himself back in some busier centre of the world’s business.

Here also there is a great square in the centre of the town, with the Dutch church in the midst of it,—by no means so ugly as the church at Pretoria. The square is larger and very much more picturesque,—while the sardine boxes and paper shirt-collars, so ubiquitous at the newer town, are less obtrusive. The square when I was there was green with grass on which horses were grazing, and here and there were stationed the huge waggons of travellers who had “spanned out” their oxen and were resting here under the tent coverings erected on their vehicles. The scene as I saw it would have made an exquisite subject for a Dutch landscape painter, and was especially Dutch in all its details.

At one corner of the square the Judge was holding the Court in a large room next to the Post-office which is kept for that and other public services. The Judge I had met at Pretoria, and had been much struck by his youth. One expects a judge to be reverend with years, but this was hardly more than a boy judge. He had been brought from the Cape Bar to act as Judge in the Transvaal before the annexation,—when the payment even of a judge’s salary must have been a matter of much doubt. But the annexation came speedily and the position of the new comer was made sure by British authority. He at any rate must approve the great step taken by Sir Theophilus Shepstone. I was assured when at Pretoria that the Colony generally had every reason to be satisfied with the choice made by the Republic. He will no doubt have assistant Judges and become a Chief Justice before long and may probably live to be the oldest legal pundit under the British Crown. I went into the Court to look at him while at work, but was not much edified as the case then before him was carried on in Dutch. Dutch and English have to be used in the Court as one or the other language may be needed. An interpreter is present, but as all the parties concerned in the case, including the Judge and the jury, were conversant with Dutch, no interpreter was wanted when I was there.

From Potchefstroom to Klerksdorp our horses, including the new purchase, did their work well. Here we found a clean little Inn kept by an Englishman with a very nice English wife,—who regaled us with lamb and mint-sauce and boiled potatoes, and provided clean sheets for our couches. Why such a man, and especially why such a woman, should be at such a place it is difficult to understand. For Klerksdorp is a town consisting perhaps of a dozen houses. The mail cart passes but once a week, and the other traffic on the road is chiefly that of ox-waggons.

On the following day, a Saturday, we travelled 50 miles, and, with our horses very tired, reached a spot across the “Maquasie Spruit,” at which a store or shop is kept and where we remained over the Sunday, hospitably entertained by the owners of the establishment. Here we were on land which has been claimed and possessed by the Transvaal Republic; but which was given over to the Batlapin natives by a division generally known in the later-day history of South African affairs as the Keate award. The Batlapins are a branch of the great Bechuana tribe. Mr. Keate in 1871 was Lieut.-Governor of Natal, and undertook, at the instance of the British Government, to make an award between the Transvaal Republic and the Batlapin Kafirs, whose Chief is and was a man called Gassibone. I should hardly interest or instruct my readers by going deeply into the vexed question of the Keate award. To Europeans living in South Africa it is always abominable that anything should be given up or back to the natives, and whatever is surrendered to them in the way of territory is always resumed before long by hook or crook. There is a whole district of the Transvaal Republic,—a county as we should say,—lying outside or beyond the “Maquasie Spruit,”—called Bloomhof, with two towns, Bloomhof and Christiana, each having perhaps a dozen houses,—and this the Transvaal never did surrender. Governor Keate’s award was repudiated by the Volksraad of the Transvaal, and a Dutch Landroost,—or magistrate,—who however is an Englishman, was stationed at Christiana and still remains there. This was a matter of no great trouble to us while the Republic stood on its own legs. Though a Governor of ours had made the award we were not bound to remedy Dutch injustice. But now what are we to do? Are we to give back the country with its British and Dutch inhabitants,—a dozen families at Bloomhof and a dozen more at Christiana,—and the farmers here and there to the dominion of Gassibone and his Batlapins? I think I may say that most certainly we shall do nothing of the kind,—but with what excuse we shall escape the necessity I do not see so clearly. In the meantime there is the Landroost at Christiana,—now paid with British gold, who before the annexation was paid with Transvaal notes worth 5s. to the nominal pound. When I talked to him of Keate’s award and of Gassibone’s line, he laughed at me. Annexation to British rule with all the beauties of British punctuality was a great deal too good a thing to be sacrificed to a theory of justice in favour of such a poor race of unfighting Kafirs as the Batlapins! I have no doubt that he was right, and that the Transvaal Colony will maintain a Landroost at Christiana as long as Landroosts remain in that part of South Africa.

But the question was a very vital one in that neighbourhood. As I was passing over the Vaal in a punt to the Orange Free State a Boer who had heard my name, and who paid me the undeserved compliment of thinking my opinion on such a matter worth having, consulted me on his peculiar case. After the Keate award, when by the decision then made the portion of territory in question had been adjudged to be the property of Gassibone and his tribe, this Boer had bought land of the Kafirs. The land so procured had also been distributed by the Transvaal Republican Government to those claiming it under the law as to burghers’ rights. The rulers of the Transvaal Republic would not recognise any alienation of land by contract with the Kafirs. Now, upon the annexation, my friend had thought that the Keate award would be the law, and that his purchase from the Kafirs would hold good. There was I, a grey-bearded Englishman of repute, travelling the country. What did I think of it? I could only refer him to the Landroost. The Landroost, he said, was against him. “Then,” said I, “you may be sure that the facts will be against you, for the Landroost will have the decision in his hands.” He assented to my opinion as though it had come direct from Minos, merely remarking that it was very hard upon him. I did not pity him much because it is probable that he only gave the Kafirs a few head of cattle, and that he bought the land from Kafirs who had no right of selling it away from their tribe. At the “Maquasie Spruit,” where we first entered this debateable land, the storekeepers were also anxious to know what was to happen to them; but they were Scotchmen and were no doubt quite clear in their own minds that the entire country would remain British soil.

The next day we reached Bloomhof and on the day following Christiana. This last place we entered anything but triumphantly, two of our horses being so tired that we had to take them off the cart, and walk into the place driving them before us. Two more days would take us to Kimberley according to our appointed time, but these two days would be days of long work. And here we heard for the first time that there was a long and weary region of sand before us in the portion of the Orange Free State through which we must pass. It was evident to us that we could not do it all with our own horses, and therefore we resolved to hire. This was at first pronounced to be impossible, but the impossibility vanished. Though there were certainly not more than twelve houses in the place one belonged to a man who, oddly enough, had two spare horses out in the veld. He was brought to us, and I shall never forget the look of dismay and bewilderment which came across his countenance when he was told that he must decide at once whether he would allow his horses to be hired. “He must,” he said, as he seated himself near a bottle of Cape brandy,—“he must have time to think about it!” When he was again pressed, he groaned and shook himself. The landlord told us that the man was so poor that his children had nothing to eat but mealies. The money no doubt was desirable;—but how could he make up his mind in less than two or three hours to what extent he might so raise his demand as not to frighten away the customers which Providence had sent him, and yet secure the uttermost sum after due chaffering and bargaining? At last words were extracted from him. We should have two horses for sixteen miles, for——well, say, for the incredibly small sum of £2. We hurriedly offered him 30s., and he was at last bustled into the impropriety of agreeing to our terms without taking a night’s rest to sleep upon it. He was an agonised man as he assented, having been made to understand that we must then and there make up our minds, whether we would proceed early on the next day or stay for twenty-four hours to refresh our own stud. The latter alternative would, however, have been destructive to us, as our horses had already eaten up all the forage to be found in Christiana. At seven the next morning two wretched little ponies were brought in from the veld, one of which was lame. All Christiana was standing in the street to watch us. I flicked the lame animal with the driver’s long whip to see if he could trot, and then pronounced in his favour. I fear I felt that his lameness would not matter if he could be made to take us as far as “Blignaut’s punt” which was now his destination. He was harnessed in, and on we went with the two most infirm of our own team following behind us. We made the stage with great success,—and whatever may have been the future state of that pony he went out of harness apparently a much sounder animal than he went in. From hence, after discussing the matter of Keate’s award with the injured Dutchmen, we went on across the arid lands of the Orange Free State to a Boer’s house in the wilderness, where we were assured that we should be made welcome for that night. Our horses could hardly take us there;—but they did do it, and we were made welcome. The Boer was very much like the other Boers of the Transvaal,—a burly, handsome, dirty man, with a very large, dirty family, and a dirty house,—but all the manners of the owner of a baronial castle. He also had a private tutor in his family, a Dutchman who had come out to make money, who knew German and English, but who had failed in his career, and had undertaken his present duties at the rate of £12 a month, besides his board and lodging. I have known English gentlemen who have not paid so highly for their private tutors. This farm was altogether in the wilderness, the land around being a sandy, stony desert, and not a shrub, hardly a blade of grass, being visible. But we knew that our host had grown rich as a farmer on it, owning in fee about 12,000 acres.

On the next morning we were up early, but we could not get on without the Boer’s assistance. One of our horses was again dying or seemed to be dying. He was a pretty bay pony, the very fellow of the one we had lost at Wonder Fontein. He had not ate his food all night, and when we took him out at five in the morning he would do nothing but fall down in the veld at our feet. He suffered excruciating agonies, groaning and screaming as we looked at him. We gave him all that we had to give,—French brandy and Castor oil. But nothing seemed to serve him. Then there came to us a little Dutchman from a neighbouring waggon who suggested that we should bleed our poor pony in the ear. The little Dutchman was accordingly allowed the use of a penknife, and the animal’s ear was slit. From that moment he recovered,—beginning at once to crop what grass there was. I have often known the necessity of bleeding horses for meagrims or staggers, by cutting the animal on the palate of the mouth. But I had never before heard of operating on a horse’s ear; and I think I may say that our pony was suffering, not from meagrims or from staggers, but from cholic. I leave the fact to veterinary surgeons at home; but our pony, after having almost died and then been bled on the ear, travelled on with us bravely though without much strength to help us.

On this day we did at last reach the Diamond Fields, but our journey was anything but comfortable. It was very hot and the greater part of the road was so heavy with sand that we were forced to leave the cart and walk. The Boer at whose house we had slept, lent us a horse to help us for the first eight miles. Then we came to a little Dutch roadside public house, the owner of which provided us with two horses to help us on to Kimberley,—a distance of 27 miles,—for £2, sending with us a Kafir boy to lead our tired horses and bring back his own. Eight miles on we reached a hut in the wilderness where a Dutchman had made a dam, and he allowed us to water our cattle charging us one and sixpence. From thence on to Kimberley, through the heavy sand, there was not a drop of water. We went very slowly ourselves, trudging on foot after the cart; but the Kafir boy could not keep up with us, and he with the two poor animals remained out in the veld all night. We did reach the town about sunset, and I found myself once again restored to the delights of tubs, telegrams, and bed linen.

Here we parted with our cart, horses, and harness which,—including the price of the animal purchased at Potchefstroom,—had cost us £243,—selling them by auction and realising the respectable sum of £100 by the sale. The auctioneer endeavoured to raise the speculative energy of the bidders by telling them that the horses had all been bred at “Orley Farm” for my own express use, “Orley Farm” being the name of a novel written by me many years ago;—but I do not know that this romance much affected the bidding. We had intended to have taken our equipage on to Bloemfontein, the capital of the Orange Free State, which is about 80 miles from Kimberley; but my travelling companion was summoned back to Capetown, and I would not make the journey, or undertake the nuisance of the sale alone. We were of course told that, as things were at present, horses were a mere drug at the Diamond Fields, and that a Cape cart in Kimberley was a thing of no value at all. In my ignorance I would have taken £10 for my share, and therefore when I heard what the auctioneer had done for us I almost felt that my fortune had been made for ever. I certainly think that if the purchaser had seen the team coming into Kimberley he would have hesitated before he made his last bid.

I have endeavoured to give the reader the results so far of my experience of South African travel. As regards money and time no doubt both are to some extent sacrificed by the buying and selling of a private carriage or cart. We had our horses on the road a month.

which, as we were two, must be divided, making our expense £101 10s. each for about 700 miles. There are public conveyances over the whole road which would carry a passenger with his luggage for about £40. We travelled when on the road 30 miles a day on an average, whereas the public carts make an average of 90. This seems to be all in favour of the mail carts. And then it has to be acknowledged that the responsibilities and difficulties of a private team are very wearing. Horses in South Africa are peculiarly liable to sickness; and, though they do a very large average of work, seem when tired to be more incapable of getting over the ground than any other horses. The necessity of providing forage,—sometimes where no forage is to be had,—and of carrying large quantities on the cart; the agony of losing a horse, and the nuisa