Part 10 (2/2)
Knox was a quiet, inoffensive man, except when under the influence of drink. Then he was, in local parlance, ”a holy terror.” He would get a keg of Mauritius rum, a most ferocious intoxicant, open it, fasten up his tent, and go to bed. For several days thereafter Knox would not be dangerous, unless you tripped over the tent-ropes or tried to open the tent. However, he eventually reached a stage during which if he heard footsteps anywhere in his vicinity he would fire his revolver in the direction of the sound. The canvas sides of his tent were riddled with bullet-holes, I only remember one case in which damage actually resulted, it was that of a native who got a bullet through the calf of his leg.
After a time people ”in the know” avoided the vicinity of Knox's tent whenever he was on the spree. Sometimes, when in the later stages of his cups, Knox would fire in all directions apparently for the purpose of relieving his feelings. However, as there were no tents very close to his, this did not matter so very much. Many a time have I heard the old Colt revolver barking at intervals through the evening, but the performance was taken quite as a matter of course. One would merely say to another:
”Hullo, there's Knox at it again. I suppose he'll be out to-morrow or the day after.”
I remember something which caused much comment early in 1875. I can vouch for the details, so far as I relate them. On New Year's Night, 1874, three men met at a bar known as ”The Half-way House,” which stood where the creek narrowed and made a sharp turn a few hundred yards above the Middle Camp. The late John Barrington, afterwards of Knysna, was one, another was a man named Marshall, the name of the third I have forgotten.
Just before midnight they drank to a profane and senseless toast, ”Before this day twelve months may we all die in a tail-race and be covered by tailings.” ”Tailings” are the waste products of the sluice-box, the sand and gravel carried away by the stream of water which flows over the ”ripples.”
About four months afterwards the man whose name I have forgotten was out prospecting among the higher ranges to the north of the creek. He fell ill and endeavored to return to camp, but a bitterly cold rain set in and he perished miserably. Soon afterwards Marshall, who had been in the Low Country, went down with fever. The attack was comparatively light, so he soon got better. But one dark night, while still somewhat weak, he went out to visit a friend. Not far from the tent of the latter a ”head-race,” which is not just the same as a ”tail-race,” had recently been dug. As the digging had been effected while Marshall was laid up, he was unaware of the existence of the excavation.
The head-race was about eight feet deep; it was wide at the top, but it narrowed down to about a foot's-breadth at the bottom. Into this chasm poor Marshall fell headlong, and his shoulders jammed where the channel narrowed. Owing to weakness he was unable to extricate himself, and his head, being downward, d.a.m.ned the water up so that it drowned him. The tent of the friend he had intended to visit stood close by. This man noticed that the flow of the water stopped several times and then went on again with a rush. This was caused by the struggles of the unhappy Marshall as he was drowning.
Nothing happened to John Harrington, whom I met fourteen years afterwards in Cape Town, but in view of the two fatalities he was somewhat uneasy until the following New Year's Day had arrived.
Another terrible accident was the one in which a friend of mine named Blenkins lost his life. I have a very clear recollection of the circ.u.mstances. The thing happened on the afternoon of the day on which I returned from the ”rush” to Rotunda Creek.
Blenkins was working on the high terrace known as Gardiner's Point. A large quartzite boulder it was afterwards found to measure nearly thirty tons stood embedded in the face of the claim, about three feet above bedrock. This boulder had been stripped on one side.
Many attempts had been made towards causing it to drop forward, with the view of rolling it down the face of the terrace. No one knew, of course, how much of it was still concealed by the yet undisturbed gravel. Poor Blenkins very unadvisedly sat down before it and began loosening the wash underneath with a driving-pick. Suddenly the boulder fell forward and pinned him to the bedrock, from the waist downwards. I was at work in the creek below. I heard a shout and saw men running from every direction up the face of the terrace. I joined the stream. I shall never forget what I saw when I reached the scene of the accident.
It was hours before we succeeded in s.h.i.+fting the boulder. We only managed this by excavating a pit in the bedrock and rolling the monster into it. Whilst doing this two other men nearly lost their lives.
My poor friend was alive and conscious all the time. The only mercy was that he did not suffer physically; he was too badly crushed. He died soon after being released. Blenkins was extremely popular. His tent stood within about fifteen yards of mine.
The professional digger of those days was a being sui generis. Shrewd, frugal, industrious, and capable of taking care of himself while in his accustomed environment, he was apt to become as helpless as a child when he reached unfamiliar surroundings. Thus, a successful digger wis.h.i.+ng to invest his ”pile” was often the prey of the first specious rogue he met.
Poor Alick Dempster! All old Pilgrims will remember him and the rich little ”pocket” he struck close to John Barrington's claim, and just below the ”Half-way House.” Dempster was a digger of the old school. He disbelieved in banks, so always kept his gold in his tent. Whenever he wished to go anywhere, no matter what the distance, he walked. He preferred nuggets and ”dust” to notes or specie; when he made a purchase he liked to weigh out the equivalent of the price across the counter from his chamois leather bag. He usually got drunk on Sat.u.r.day night, but not to such an extent as to lose his reason.
After his ”pocket” had been worked out Dempster decided to revisit his native country, Scotland. So he entertained his friends at a farewell banquet, packed his swag with 220 ounces of gold carefully secured in the middle and started on a tramp to Durban. A lot of his friends accompanied him to the Blyde River Drift, and there gave him a parting cheer. Even now I can see him st.u.r.dily walking up the hill after he had crossed the river, and pausing to wave his hat to us in farewell.
Dempster arrived safely in Durban and booked his pa.s.sage to England.
But the enforced idleness on the voyage preyed on his mind; the strange surroundings irked him; he took to drink badly. One day, when in the Bay of Biscay, he rushed on deck carrying his leather bag of gold.
After flinging this into the sea he leaped over-board. Dempster was fished out; the gold, of course, went to the bottom.
A few months afterwards a striking and realistic picture of poor Alick Dempster's escapade occupied the place of honor in the Police News.
Little detail was given, what there was resembled a nightmare. Just touching the water and causing a tremendous splash was a conventionally, designed gold-bag labeled ”800.” In the air, descending from the s.h.i.+p's rail, in what the late Lewis Carroll would have described as an Anglo-Saxon att.i.tude, was a figure purporting to be Alick himself, but it was hardly a recognizable portrait.
This work of sensational art caused great excitement in the camp. There was only one copy, and that was in immense demand so much so that the owner found himself suddenly famous. Prompted by a simple desire to be obliging, he pasted the picture on the lid of a packing-case, and printed the legend ”This is Alick Dempster” beneath it in large letters. A native was hired to carry the board up and down the creek, beating an old tin billy to attract attention. This thoughtful proceeding was much appreciated. One may wonder as to how it struck the native.
CHAPTER IX
Expedition to Delagoa Bay--A rencontre at Constantinople--Morisot and the lion--Game in the Low Country--The Barber encampment--Lion's attack by daylight--Lions in the donga--The lion's voice--Ways of the lion--The lion an eater of carrion--Tyrer and the buffalo--Veld fires--A piece of bad luck--The Low Country rivers--Snakes--Hyenas--Louren Marques--Funeral of Pat Foote--Discovery of gold near Blyde River--Antic.i.p.ated affluence Disappointment
I am here met by the difficulty that many of my exploring, hunting, and prospecting adventures during the years 1874 and 1875 have been described in one or other of my published works, either as stated fact or fact disguised as fiction. Nevertheless, I will endeavor to recall a few as yet unrecorded reminiscences of adventure by flood and field during that period.
In June, 1874, I joined an expedition to Delagoa Bay, which was organized by President Burgers for the purpose of convoying ammunition and other war materials to Pretoria. An attack upon Sekukuni, the Baphedi chief, had been decided on. This, however, was not attempted until nearly two years had elapsed. The undertaking was a difficult one, and involved some interesting experiences, but as I have already published an account of it under the t.i.tle of ”A Forgotten Expedition,”
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