Six Months at the Cape

㿚
Six Months at the Cape, by R.M. Ballantyne

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Six Months at the Cape, by R.M. Ballantyne This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Six Months at the Cape
Author: R.M. Ballantyne
Release Date: June 6, 2007 [EBook #21704]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SIX MONTHS AT THE CAPE ***

Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

Six Months at the Cape, Letters to his friend Periwinkle, by R.M. Ballantyne.

LETTER ONE.
"A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE."
South Africa.
Dear Periwinkle,--Since that memorable, not to say miserable, day, when you and I parted at Saint Katherine's Docks, [see note 1], with the rain streaming from our respective noses--rendering tears superfluous, if not impossible--and the noise of preparation for departure damaging the fervour of our "farewell"--since that day, I have ploughed with my "adventurous keel" upwards of six thousand miles of the "main," and now write to you from the wild Karroo of Southern Africa.
The Karroo is not an animal. It is a spot--at present a lovely spot. I am surrounded by--by nature and all her southern abundance. Mimosa trees, prickly pears, and aloes remind me that I am not in England. Ostriches, stalking on the plains, tell that I am in Africa. It is not much above thirty years since the last lion was shot in this region, [see note 2], and the kloofs, or gorges, of the blue mountains that bound the horizon are, at the present hour, full of "Cape-tigers," wild deer of different sorts, baboons, monkeys, and--but hold! I must not forestall. Let me begin at the beginning.
The adventurous keel above referred to was not, as you know, my own private property. I shared it with some two hundred or so of human beings, and a large assortment of the lower animals. Its name was the "Windsor Castle"--one of a magnificent line of ocean steamers belonging to an enterprising British firm.
There is something appallingly disagreeable in leave-taking. I do not refer now to the sentiment, but to the manner of it. Neither do I hint, my dear fellow, at your manner of leave-taking. Your abrupt "Well, old boy, bon voyage, good-bye, bless you," followed by your prompt retirement from the scene, was perfect in its way, and left nothing to be desired; but leave-takings in general--how different!
Have you never stood on a railway platform to watch the starting of an express?
Of course you have, and you have seen the moist faces of those two young sisters, who had come to "see off" that dear old aunt, who had been more than a mother to them since that day, long ago, when they were left orphans, and who was leaving them for a few months, for the first time for many years; and you have observed how, after kissing and weeping on her for the fiftieth time, they were forcibly separated by the exasperated guard; and the old lady was firmly, yet gently thrust into her carriage, and the door savagely locked with one hand, while the silver whistle was viciously clapt to the lips with the other, and the last "goo-ood--bye--d-arling!" was drowned by a shriek, and puff and clank, as the train rolled off.
You've seen it all, have you not, over and over again, in every degree and modification? No doubt you have, and as it is with parting humanity at railway stations, so is it at steamboat wharves.
There are differences, however. After you had left, I stood and sympathised with those around me, and observed that there is usually more emotion on a wharf than on a platform--naturally enough, as, in the case of long sea voyages, partings, it may be presumed, are for longer periods, and dangers are supposed to be greater and more numerous than in land journeys,--though this is open to question. The waiting process, too, is prolonged. Even after the warning bell had sent non-voyagers ashore, they had to stand for a considerable time in the rain while we cast off our moorings or went through some of those incomprehensible processes by which a leviathan steamer is moved out of dock.
After having made a first false move, which separated us about three yards from the wharf--inducing the wearied friends on shore to brighten up and smile, and kiss hands, and wave kerchiefs, with that energy of decision which usually marks a really final farewell--our steamer remained in that position for full half an hour, during which period we gazed from the bulwarks, and our friends gazed from under their dripping umbrellas across the now impassable gulf in mute resignation.
At that moment a great