With the Boer Forces | Page 6

horrible pest-hole as
Lorenzo Marques.

The railroad from Lorenzo Marques to Ressana Garcia, at the Transvaal
border, was interesting only from the fact that it was more historical
than comfortable for travelling purposes. As the train passed through
the dry, dusty, and uninteresting country, which was even too poor and
unhealthy for the blacks, the mind speculated upon the proposition
whether the Swiss judges who decided the litigation concerning the
road would have spent ten years in making a decision if they had been
compelled to conduct their deliberation within sight of the railway. The
land adjoining the railroad was level, well timbered and well watered,
and the vast tracts of fine grass give the impression that it might be an
excellent country for farming, but it was in the belt known as the fever
district, and white men avoided it as they would a cholera-infested city.
Shortly before the train arrived at the English river several lofty
white-stone pyramids on either side of the railway were passed, and the
Transvaal was reached. A long iron bridge spanning the river was
crossed, and the train reached the first station in the Boer country,
Koomatipoort.
Courteous Boer officials entered the train and requested the passengers
to disembark with all their luggage, for the purpose of
custom-examination. No gratuities were accepted there, as at Lorenzo
Marques, and nothing escaped the vigilance of the bearded inspectors.
Trunks and luggage were carefully scrutinised, letters read line by line
and word for word; revolvers and ammunition promptly confiscated if
not declared; and even the clothing of the passengers was faithfully
examined. Passports were closely investigated, and, when all appeared
to be thoroughly satisfactory, a white cross was chalked on the boots of
the passengers, and they were free to proceed farther inland. The
field-cornet of the district was one of the few Boers at the station, and
he performed the duties of his office by introducing himself to certain
passengers whom he believed to be foreign volunteers, and offering
them gratuitous railway tickets to Pretoria. No effort was made to
conceal the fact that the volunteers were welcome in the country, and
nothing was left undone to make the foreigners realise that their
presence was appreciated.
After Koomatipoort was passed the train crept slowly into the

mountainous district, where huge peaks pierced the clouds and gigantic
boulders overhung the tracks. Narrow defiles stretched away in all
directions and the sounds of cataracts in the Crocodile River flowing
alongside the iron path drowned the roar of the train. Flowering,
vari-coloured plants, huge cacti, and thick tropical vegetation lined the
banks of the river, and occasionally the thatched roof of a negro's hut
peered out over the undergrowth, to indicate that a few human beings
chose that wild region for their abode. Hour after hour the train crept
along narrow ledges up the mountains' sides, then dashed down
declines and out upon small level plains which, with their surrounding
and towering eminences, had the appearance of vast green bowls. In
that impregnable region lay the small town of Machadodorp, which,
later, became the capital of the Transvaal. A few houses of corrugated
iron, a pretty railway-station, and much scenery, serves as a worthy
description of the town at the junction of the purposed railway to the
gold-fields of Lydenberg.
After a journey of twelve hours through the fever country the train
reached the western limit of that belt and rested for the night in a small,
green, cup-shaped valley bearing the descriptive name of Waterval
Onder--"under the waterfall." The weary passengers found more
corrugated iron buildings and the best hotel in South Africa. The host,
Monsieur Mathis, a French Boer, and his excellent establishment came
as a breath of fresh air to a stifling traveller on the desert, and long will
they live in the memories of the thousands of persons who journeyed
over the railroad during the war. After the monotonous fare of an
east-coast steamer and the mythical meals of a Lorenzo Marques hotel,
the roast venison, the fresh milk and eggs of Mathis were as welcome
as the odour of the roses that filled the valley.
The beginning of the second day's journey was characterised by a ride
up and along the sides of a magnificent gorge through which the waters
of the Crocodile River rushed from the lofty plateau of the high veld to
the wildernesses of the fever country and filled that miniature South
African Switzerland with myriads of rainbows. A long, curved, and
inclined tunnel near the top of the mountain led to the undulating plains
of the Transvaal--a marvellously rapid transition from a region filled

with nature's wildest panoramas to one that contained not even a tree or
rock or cliff to relieve the monotony of the landscape. On the one side
of