Reminiscences of a South African Pioneer - W. C. Scully

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deadly earnest.

      I moved out my king's pawn; then the king's bishop; then the queen. My heart was in my mouth; surely so experienced a player was not going to walk open-eyed into such a booby-trap. But the sirens had lured his attention away. Next move I gave him "fool's mate." That moment was one of the proudest of my life; I had beaten the champion, the Admirable Crichton of games of skill, the man whose word was law in all matters relating to sport in our little community.

      Unfortunately, however, I was too young and inexperienced to support my triumph with becoming dignity. I rushed up the companion stair shouting the news of my victory at the top of my voice. I told it to the captain, the officers, the passengers, and to such members of the crew as I was acquainted with. But I was astute enough never again to offer to play chess with Mr. Woodrooffe, and even to decline when he suggested our having a return game.

      The Biscayan tides were kind; but no sooner had we passed Finisterre than a gale struck us, and for many woeful days the Asia behaved like a drunken porpoise. I do not think a single passenger escaped sea-sickness. The gale continued until the night before we reached Madeira. I shall never forget the enchanting prospect which Funchal afforded as we glided to our anchorage in the early morning. The misery of the previous week was forgotten in the rapture of a moment. The sky was cloudless and the contours of the lovely island were bathed in opaline light. What joy the first sight, smell, and taste of the tropical fruits brought. Cold storage, by bringing all descriptions of exotic fruit to Europe, has robbed travel towards the tropics of one of its keenest delights.

      We passed to the westward of Teneriffe in perfectly clear weather. The recent storms encountered by us had extended far to the south; consequently the great peak was clothed in dazzling snow to an unusual distance below its summit. The impression left on my memory by that mountain mass, with the snow-mantle glowing in the rose-red light of sunset, will never fade. I can well remember being sadly disappointed at the first view of the Southern Cross. The voyage was uneventful until we reached the vicinity of the Cape, where we again encountered a most violent south-west gale. For two days we steamed against a tremendous sea. Wave after wave swept our decks; all the passengers had to remain below. I remember the ladies sitting huddled together at night in the companion, and the ship's doctor (I think his name was Williamson) regaling them with gruesome tales of shipwreck until the more nervous of the listeners began to wail aloud. So bad was the storm, that cooking was almost suspended. The menu consisted solely of "sea-pie" a comestible apparently composed of lumps of salt-beef stuck into slabs of very tough dough, and the result boiled in a hurried and perfunctory manner. Two days after the cessation of the storm, the Asia steamed into Table Bay.

      The Asia, poor old tub, lies at the bottom of the Bay of Bengal, where she foundered with all hands when engaged in the cattle-trade. Peace to her iron bones. Most of my fellow Argonauts, long before this, must have sunk into that sleep from which there is no earthly waking. Few, if any of us, managed to find the Golden Fleece. Those who, like myself, are still seeking it, are treading that downhill path which grows steeper at every pace, and which leads to that valley, filled with grey shadow, out of which none return. To them I hold out a hand of greeting in the spirit. Perhaps, when the Great Cycle has been traversed, we may meet again. Perhaps in another Argo we may voyage from Sirius to Mazaroth, through seas of golden ether adventurers from world to world instead of from continent to continent.

       Table of Contents

      Arrival at Cape Town—Port Elizabeth—First encounter with big game Grahamstown—Severe thunderstorm—King William's Town Natives and their ponies—Social peculiarities—Farming—The annual trek—Camp-life Surf-bathing—Self-sacrificing attitude of Larry O'Toole—Capture of an ant-bear—The coast scenery—A moral shock—School Chief Toise—Rainy seasons—Flooded rivers

      It was about the middle of December when we reached Table Bay. With the exception of the old Slave Barracks, in which the Supreme Court sits, I do not think a single one of the present Adderley Street buildings existed. Bree Street is more or less unchanged, but immediately to the eastward of it modernization begins. The most interesting building to me was the old Fruit Market, facing the Parade. I think it stood on the present site of the Drill Hall. The variety of strange fruits there to be found, the grotesque dresses of the Malays, and the babel of uncouth speech exercised a fascination the memory of which has never faded.

      The costume of the average Malay woman has remained unchanged; it is surely the most hideous of the many sumptuary hideosities for which fashion is responsible. This is the more deplorable for that the Malay women, when young, are often extremely pretty. The color scheme they affect is good; these women usually dress in light, flimsy silks of varied hue. Such materials are used at all events among the well-to-do for skirt, bodice, kerchief, and coiffure. But under the skirt, which hangs from just below the arm-pits, there must be at least a dozen petticoats. The result is a figure resembling a misshapen cone. I believe this costume is an exaggerated imitation of that of the "merchant's" wife of a little more than a century ago, and that it was adopted by the Malays when the Dutch sumptuary laws were repealed.

      We were hospitably entertained by the families of some friends we had made on the voyage. One day we spent with the Hams, an old Cape family whose homestead, long since "improved" away, stood not far from the present site of the Mount Nelson Hotel. Constantia, also, we visited, and were presented with some of the famous wine there grown.

      At this time the only railway in South Africa was a single line between Cape Town and Wynberg. It was said, but I do not know with how much truth, that the building of this line was due to the accidental circumstance that a ship, bound for Australia with railway material, was wrecked in the vicinity of the Cape.

      After a delay of about a week we set sail for Port Elizabeth, the end of our voyage. We left considerably more than half of our passengers in Cape Town. The parting with some of these was a sad experience; during the course of the long voyage we had made many friends. We reached Port Elizabeth on Christmas Eve, and were carried ashore through the surf by natives. Immediately after landing, we passed a yard full of old lumber. Protruding from a chaos of ancient rubbish was a signboard, bearing in dingy letters the legend: "Joseph Scully, Coach Painter." This is the only occasion upon which I have come across my name in South Africa. We landed at once, but some of the passengers elected to remain on board the Asia until next morning. This they had ample cause to regret, for a severe south-easter set in during the night and rendered communication with the shore impossible for several days.

      Port Elizabeth, although then a thriving town, had not yet earned the title "the Liverpool of South Africa." I doubt as to whether its commercial self-righteousness had developed to the extent of adopting the sobriquet "the Honest Port." My most salient memories are of hospitality, wool, hides, pumpkins, and sand. So far as I can recall, neither Main Street nor the Market Square was paved. That useful but ungainly ship of the southern deserts, the ox-wagon, was much in evidence. When the wind blew, as it did nearly all the time we were there, the dust arose in one continuous cloud, and grit reigned supreme.

      But the hospitality of the Port Elizabethans was a thing to be remembered with great pleasure. No sooner had we landed than invitations poured in on us. This was not merely complimentary it was the outcome of genuine kindness and a desire to be helpful. There was no ostentation, but just the natural expression of a simple desire to welcome and assist the stranger newly arrived within the gates. Hospitality was one of the cardinal South African virtues in those days. It has been truly said that even a quarter of a century ago a man might ride from Cape Town to the Limpopo without a shilling in his pocket, and be well entertained all the way. Things have, however, much changed in this respect. I suppose this was inevitable; true hospitality is a plant which seldom survives the hot stress of the struggle for riches.

      Grahamstown was our destination, so an ox-wagon of the largest size and with a team to match was hired to convey us and our belongings to the city, which has since become so celebrated as the abode of saints. Our first outspan was in the valley of the Zwartkops River, close to a big vlei, which was surrounded by dense, scrubby jungle. I had a small single-barreled

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