Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 24)( Page 2 ) The Last Trek

The next water on the road was Komati River, but the cattle were too weak to reach it in one trek, and remembering another pool off the road--a small lagoon found by accident when out hunting the year before--we moved on that night out on to the flats and made through the bush for several miles to look for water and grass. We found the place just after dawn.  There was a string of half a dozen pools ringed with yellow-plumed reeds--like a bracelet of sapphires set in gold--deep deep pools of beautiful water in the midst of acres and acres of rich buffalo grass.  It was too incredibly good! I was trekking alone that trip, the only white man there, and--tired out by the all-night's work, the long ride, and the searching in the bush for the lagoon--I had gone to sleep after seeing the cattle to the water and grass.  Before midday I was back among them again; some odd movements struck a chord of memory, and the night at Low's Creek flashed back.  Tails were swishing freely, and the bullock nearest me kicked up sharply at its side and swung its head round to brush something away.  I moved closer up to see what was causing the trouble: in a few minutes I heard a thin sing of wings, different from a mosquito's, and there settled on my shirt a grey fly, very like and not much larger than a common house-fly, whose wings folded over like a pair of scissors.  That was the "mark of the beast."  I knew then why this oasis had been left by transport-rider and trekker, as nature made it, untrodden and untouched. Not a moment was lost in getting away from the `fly.'  But the mischief was already done; the cattle must have been bitten at Low's Creek weeks before, and again that morning during the time I slept; and it was clear that, not drought and poverty, but `fly' was the cause of their weakness.  After the first rains they would begin to die, and the right thing to do, now was to press on as fast as possible and deliver the loads.  Barberton was booming and short of supplies and the rates were the highest ever paid; but I had done better still, having bought my own goods, and the certain profit looked a fortune to me.  Even if all the cattle became unfit for use or died, the loads would pay for everything and the right course therefore was to press on; for delay would mean losing both cattle and loads--all I had in the world--and starting again penniless with the years of hard work thrown away. So the last hard struggle began.  And it was work and puzzle day and night, without peace or rest; trying to nurse the cattle in their daily failing strength, and yet to push them for all they could do; watching the sky cloud over every afternoon, promising rain that never came, and not knowing whether to call it promise or threat; for although rain would bring grass and water to save the cattle, it also meant death to the fly-bitten. We crossed the Komati with three spans--forty-four oxen--to a waggon, for the drift was deep in two places and the weakened cattle could not keep their feet.  It was a hard day, and by nightfall it was easy to pick out the oxen who would not last out a week.  That night Zole lay down and did not get up again--Zole the little fat schoolboy, always out of breath, always good-tempered and quiet, as tame as a pet dog.