Six Months at the Cape, R. M. Ballantyne [some good books to read txt] 📗

Salem is, as it should be, a peaceful spot. It was not always so. There was a time when its inhabitants had to toil, so to speak, with the spade in one hand, and the musket in the other. It lies in a hollow of the great rolling plains, and was founded, like many of the eastern towns, in the memorable “1820,” when the “British settlers” came out, and a new era for the colony began.

The arrival of the original settlers at Salem is thus described by one who was a noted leader in the first days:

“Our Dutch wagon-driver intimating that we had at length reached our proper location, we took our boxes out of the wagon, and placed them on the ground. He bade us goeden dag, or farewell, cracked his long whip, and drove away, leaving us to our reflections. My wife sat down on one box, and I on another. The beautiful blue sky was above us, and the green grass beneath our feet. We looked at each other for a few moments, indulged in some reflections, and perhaps exchanged a few sentences; but it was no time for sentiment, and hence we were soon engaged in pitching our tent, and when that was accomplished, we removed into it our trunks and bedding. All the other settlers who arrived with us were similarly engaged, and in a comparatively short time the somewhat extensive valley of that part of the Assagai Bush River, which was to be the site of our future village, presented a lively and picturesque appearance.”

Soon the spade, the plough, and the axe began their subduing work. Some of the beautiful grassy slopes were turned up. Small clearings were made in the bush. Frail huts with doors of matting and windows of calico began to arise. Lime was found, white-wash was applied, and the huts began to “smile.” So did the waters of the stream when partially shorn of the bush-moustache by which, from time immemorial, they had been partially concealed; the first crops were sown, and the work of civilisation began. There was a ruinous “wattle and daub” edifice which had been deserted by a Dutch Boer before the arrival of the settlers. This was converted into a church, town-hall, and hospital.

The yell of the Kafir and the whizzing assagai afterwards disturbed the peace of Salem, and at that time the settlers proved that, though on peaceful plans intent, they could bravely hold their own; but it was peaceful enough, and beautiful, when I first beheld it.

At the door of a moderately handsome residence—which had succeeded the wattle-and-daub style of thing—I was heartily welcomed by my friend and his amiable spouse. Here I had the pleasure of enjoying a South African picnic.

A picnic is at all times interesting, doubly so when undertaken in peculiar circumstances. One of the peculiarities of this picnic was that the invitation to it was publicly given, and embraced the entire population. Another peculiarity was that the population, almost in its entirety, accepted the invitation. But there were still other peculiarities which will appear in the sequel.

The morning of the day fixed was bright and beautiful. This, indeed, was no peculiarity. Most of the mornings, days, and nights in that splendid region were of much the same stamp at that time. The spot fixed on for the scene of the picnic was about six miles from Salem, where a wild buffalo had been killed the week before.

The killing of this buffalo was an “event,” for that wild denizen of the African Bush had long ago retired before the rifle of the settler to safer retreats, and rarely returned to his old haunts. A band of buffaloes, however, had apparently taken a fancy to revisit the home of their childhood at this time. There was nothing to prevent them, for, although the country is “settled,” the original “Bush” is in many places sufficiently extensive and impervious to afford safe shelter to the wildest of animals. At all events, a band of buffaloes did come to the neighbourhood of Salem, and there met with a farmer-Nimrod, who “picked off” one of their number. I turned aside, during one of my rides, to visit the head and horns, which lay near his house.

The place of rendezvous for those who dwelt in the village was an open space in front of the church. Here, at an early hour, there assembled numerous equestrians, as well as vehicles of varied shape and character. I was mounted on a smart brown pony kindly lent by Mr Shaw, teacher of the flourishing school of Salem. My friend Caldecott bestrode a powerful steed suited to his size. When the gathering had reached considerable proportions, we started like an Eastern caravan.

Among the cavaliers there were stalwart men and fair damsels—also little boys and girls, prancing in anxiety to get away. There were carts, and gigs, and buggies, or things that bore some resemblance to such vehicles, in which were the more sedate ones of the gathering; and there were great “Cape wagons,” with fifteen or twenty oxen to each, containing whole families—from hale old “grannies” down to grannies’ weaknesses in the shape of healthy lumps of live lard clad in amazement and bibs. It was a truly grand procession, as, after toiling up the slope that leads from the valley of Salem, we debouched upon the wide plain, and assumed our relative positions—that is, the riders dashed away at speed, the carts and buggies, getting up steam, pushed on, and the oxen trailed along at their unalterable gait, so that, in a few minutes, the dense group spread into a moving mass which gradually drew itself out into an attenuated line, whereof the head ultimately became invisible to the tail.

My tall host led the way with enthusiastic vigour. He was a hearty, earnest man, who could turn quickly from the pleasant contemplation of the trivialities of life to the deep and serious consideration of the things that bear on the life to come.

One Sunday I rode over the plains with him to visit a native church in which it was his duty to conduct worship. The congregation was black and woolly-headed—Hottentots chiefly, I believe, though there may have been some Kafirs amongst them.

There is something very attractive to me in the bright, eager, childlike look of black men and women. The said look may be the genuine expression of feeling—it may be, for aught I can tell, the result of contrast between the dazzling whites of eyes and teeth, with liquid-black pupils and swarthy cheeks,—but that does not alter the fact that it is pleasant.

The Hottentot who translated my friend’s discourse, sentence by sentence, was a fine specimen—I won’t say of his race, but of humanity. He was full of intelligence and fire; caught the preacher’s meaning instantly, riveted with his glittering eye the attention of his audience, and rattled out his words with a power that was most impressive, and with the interspersion of those indescribable “clicks” with which the native language abounds.

But to return to the picnic.

As we advanced, groups and couples of cavaliers and carts and wagons joined the line of march from outlying farms, so that when we reached the rendezvous we must have formed a body of two hundred strong, or more.

The spot chosen was the summit of a woody knoll, from which we could survey all the country round, and look down upon the river with its miles and miles of dense bush, in which the buffaloes had vainly fancied themselves free from the danger of human foes.

Was there plenty of food at that picnic? I should think there was. South Africans do not live upon air, by any means—though air has a good deal to do with their living. These comely maidens and strapping boys had not been brought up on water-gruel. These powerful men and ruddy matrons, to say nothing of the aged and the juvenile, would not have gone to that knoll on the plain without a prospect of “strong meat” of some sort. There were pies and joints, buns and beef, cakes and coffee, tea and tongues, sugar and sandwiches, hams and hampers, mounds of mealies, oceans of milk, and baskets of bread and butter. I’m not sure whether there were wines or spirits. I culpably forget. Probably there were not, for “Good Templars” are powerful in that region, and so is temperance.

Did we do justice to the viands? Didn’t we? My notions of human capacity were enlarged that day. So was my own capacity—out of sympathy, coupled with the ride. But