Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick ( Chapter 14 )( Page 4 ) The Berg

For those who had eyes to see the book lay open: there, as elsewhere; there, as always.  Jock, with his courage, fidelity and concentration, held the secrets of success!  Jim--dissolute, turbulent and savage-- could yield a lesson too; not a warning only, sometimes a crude but clear example!  The work itself was full of test and teaching; the hard abstemious life had its daily lessons in patience and resource, driven home by every variety of means and incident on that unkindly road.  And the dumb cattle--in their plodding toil, in their sufferings from drought and over-work, and in their strength and weakness--taught and tested too.  There is little food for self-content when all that is best and worst comes out; but there is much food for thought. There was a day at Kruger's Post when everything seemed small beside the figure of one black front ox, who held his ground when all others failed.  The waggon had sunk to the bed-plank in gluey turf, and, although the whole load had been taken off, three spans linked together failed to move it.  For eight hours that day we tried to dig and pull it out, but forty-four oxen on that soft greasy flat toiled in vain.  The long string of bullocks, desperate from failure and bewilderment, swayed in the middle from side to side to seek escape from the flying whips; the unyielding waggon held them at one end, and the front oxen, with their straining fore feet scoring the slippery surface as they were dragged backwards, strove to hold them true at the other.  Seven times that day we changed, trying to find a mate who would stand with Zwaartland; but he wore them all down.  He broke their hearts and stood it out alone!  I looked at the ground afterwards: it was grooved in long parallel lines where the swaying spans had pulled him backwards, with his four feet clawing the ground in the effort to hold them true; but he had never once turned or wavered. And there was a day at Sand River, when we saw a different picture.  The waggons were empty, yet as we came up out of the stony drift, Bantom the sulky hung lazily back, dragging on his yoke and throwing the span out of line.  Jim curled the big whip round him, without any good effect, and when the span stopped for a breather in the deep narrow road, he lay down and refused to budge.  There was no reason in the world for it except the animal's obstinate sulky temper.  When the whip—the giraffe-hide thong, doubled into a heavy loop--produced no effect, the boys took the yoke off to see if freedom would tempt the animal to rise! It did.  At the first touch of the whip Bantom jumped up and charged them; and then, seeing that there was nothing at all the matter, the boys inspanned him and made a fresh start--not touching him again for fear of another fit of sulks; but at the first call on the team, down he went again. Many are the stories of cruelty to oxen, and I had never understood how human beings could be so fiendishly cruel as to do some of the things that one heard of, such as stabbing, smothering and burning cattle; nor under what circumstances or for what reasons such acts of brutality could be perpetrated; but what I saw that day threw some light on these questions, and, more than anything else, it showed the length to which sulkiness and obstinacy will go, and made me wonder whether the explanation was to be sought in endurance of pain through temper or in sheer incapacity to feel pain at all.  This is no defence of such things; it is a bare recital of what took place--the only scene I can recall of what would be regarded as wanton cruelty to oxen; and to that extent it is an explanation, and nothing more!  Much greater and real cruelty I have seen done by work and punishment; but it was due to ignorance, impatience, or--on rare occasions--uncontrollable temper; it did not look deliberate and wanton. There were two considerations here which governed the whole case.  The first was that as long as the ox lay there it was impossible to move the waggon, and there was no way for the others to pass it; the second, that the ox was free, strong and perfectly well, and all he had to do was to get up and walk. The drivers from the other waggons came up to lend a hand and clear the way so that they might get on; sometimes three were at it together with their double whips; and, before they  could be stopped, sticks and stones  were used to hammer the animal on the head and horns, along the spine, on the hocks and shins, and wherever he was supposed to have feeling; then he was tied by the horns to the trek-chain, so that the span would drag him bodily; but not once did he make the smallest effort to rise. The road was merely a gutter scoured out by the floods and it was not possible either to drag the animal up the steep sides or to leave him and go on--the waggon would have had to pass over him.  And all this time he was outspanned and free to go; but would not stir. Then they did the kaffir trick--doubled the tail and bit it: very few bullocks will stand that, but Bantom never winced.  Then they took their clasp knives and used them as spurs--not stabbing to do real injury, but pricking enough to draw blood in the fleshy parts, where it would be most felt: he twitched to the pricks--but nothing more.  Then they made a fire close behind him, and as the wood blazed up, the heat seemed unendurable; the smell of singed hair was strong, and the flames, not a foot away, seemed to roast the flesh, and one of the drivers took a brand and pressed the glowing red coal against the inside of the hams; but, beyond a vicious kick at the fire, there was no result.  Then they tried to suffocate him, gripping the mouth and nostrils so that he could not breathe; but, when the limit of endurance was reached and even the spectators tightened up with a sense of suffocation, a savage shake of the head always freed it--the brute was too strong for them.  Then they raised the head with reims, and with the nose held high poured water down the nostrils, at the same time keeping the mouth firmly closed; but he blew the water all over them and shook himself free again. For the better part of an hour the struggle went on, but there was not the least sign of yielding on Bantom's part, and the string of waiting waggons grew longer, and many others, white men and black, gathered round watching, helping or suggesting.  At last some one brought a bucket of water, and into this Bantom's muzzle was thrust as far as it would go, and reims passed through the ears of the bucket were slipped round his horns so that he could not shake himself free at will.  We stood back and watched the animal's sides for signs of breathing.  For an incredible time he held out; but at last with a sudden plunge he was up; a bubbling muffled bellow came from the bucket; the boys let go the reims; and the terrified animal ridding himself of the bucket after a frantic struggle, stood with legs apart and eyeballs starting from the sockets, shaking like a reed. But nothing that had happened revealed the vicious ingrained obstinacy of the animal's nature so clearly as the last act in the struggle: it stood passive, and apparently beaten, while the boys inspanned it again. But at the first call to the team to start, and without a touch to provoke its temper again, it dropped down once more.  Not one of all those looking on would have believed it possible; but there it was!  In the most deliberate manner the challenge was again flung down, and the whole fight begun afresh. We felt really desperate: one could think of nothing but to repeat the bucket trick; for it was the only one that had succeeded at all.  The bucket had been flung aside on the stones as the ox freed itself, and one of the boys picked it up to fetch more water.  But no more was needed: the rattle of the bucket brought Bantom to his feet with a terrified jump, and flinging his whole weight into the yoke, he gave the waggon a heave that started the whole span, and they went out at a run. The drivers had not even picked up their whips: the only incentive applied was the bucket, which the boy--grasping the position at once-- rattled vigorously behind Bantom, doubling his frantic eagerness to get away, amid shouts of encouragement and laughter from the watching group. The trials and lessons of the work came in various shapes and at every turn; and there were many trials where the lesson was not easy to read. It would have taken a good man to handle Bantom, at any time--even in the beginning; but, full-grown, and confirmed in his evil ways, only the butcher could make anything out of him. And only the butcher did!

Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick ( Chapter 14 )( Page 3 ) The Berg

Every class has its world; each one's world--however small--is a whole world, and therefore a big world; for the little things are magnified and seem big, which is much the same thing: Crusoe's island was a world to him and he got as much satisfaction out of it as Alexander or Napoleon--probably a great deal more.  The little world is less complicated than the big, but the factors do not vary; and so it may be that the simpler the calling, the more clearly apparent are the working of principles and the relations of cause and effect.  It was so with us. To you, as a beginner, there surely comes a day when things get out of hand and your span, which was a good one when you bought it, goes wrong: the load is not too heavy; the hill not too steep; the work is not beyond them for they have done it all before; but now no power on earth, it seems, will make them face the pull.  Some jib and pull back; some bellow and thrust across; some stand out or swerve under the chain; some turn tail to front, half choked by the twisted strops, the worn-out front oxen turn and charge downhill; and all are half frantic with excitement, bewilderment or terror.  The constant shouting, the battle with refractory animals, the work with the whip, and the hopeless chaos and failure, have just about done you up; and then some one--who knows-- comes along, and, because you block the way where he would pass and he can see what is wrong, offers to give a hand.  Dropping his whip he moves the front oxen to where the foothold is best and a straight pull is possible; then walks up and down the team a couple of times talking to the oxen and getting them into place, using his hand to prod them up without frightening them, until he has the sixteen standing as true as soldiers on parade--their excitement calmed, their confidence won, and their attention given to him.  Then, one word of encouragement and one clear call to start, and the sixteen lean forward like one, the wagon lifts and heaves, and out it goes with a rattle and rush. It looks magical in its simplicity; but no lecturer is needed to explain the magic, and if honest with yourself you will turn it over that night, and with a sense of vague discomfort it will all become clear.  You may be tempted, under cover of darkness, to find a translation for `watch it' and `stick to it!' more befitting your dignity and aspirations: `observation and reasoning,' `patience and purpose,' will seem better; but probably you will not say so to any one else, for fear of being laughed at. And when the new-found knowledge has risen like yeast, and is ready to froth over in advice to others, certain things will be brought home to you with simple directness: that, sufficient unto the yeast is the loaf it has to make; that, there is only one person who has got to learn from you--yourself; and that, it is better to be still, for if you keep your knowledge to yourself you keep your ignorance from others. A marked span brands the driver.  The scored bullock may be a rogue or may be a sulky obstinate brute; but the chances are he is either badly trained or overworked, and the whip only makes matters worse; the beginner cannot judge, and the oxen suffer.  Indeed, the beginner may well fail in the task, for there are many and great differences in the temperaments and characters of oxen, just as there are in other animals or in human beings.  Once in Mashonaland, when lions broke into a kraal and killed and ate two donkeys out of a mixed lot, the mules were found next day twenty miles away; some of the oxen ran for several miles, and some stopped within a few hundred yards; two men who had been roused by the uproar saw in the moonlight one old bullock stroll out through the gap in the kraal and stop to scratch his back with his horn; and three others were contentedly dozing within ten yards of the half-eaten donkeys when we went to the kraal in the early morning and found out what had happened. There are no two alike!  You find them nervous and lethargic, timid and bold, independent and sociable, exceptional and ordinary, willing and sulky, restless and content, staunch and faint-hearted--just like human beings.  I can remember some of them now far better than many of the men known then and since:--Achmoed and Bakir, the big after-oxen who carried the disselboom contentedly through the trek and were spared all other work to save them for emergencies; who, at a word, heaved together-- their great backs bent like bows and their giant strength thrown in to hoist the waggon from the deepest hole and up the steepest hill; who were the standby in the worst descents, lying back on their haunches to hold the waggon up when brakes could do no more; and inseparables always--even when outspanned the two old comrades walked together. There was little Zole, contented, sociable and short of wind, looking like a fat boy on a hot day, always in distress.  There was Bantom, the big red ox with the white band, lazy and selfish, with an enduring evil obstinacy that was simply incredible.  There was Rooiland, the light red, with yellow eyeballs and topped horns, a fierce, wild, unapproachable, unappeasable creature, restless and impatient, always straining to start, always moaning fretfully when delayed, nervous as a young thoroughbred, aloof and unfriendly to man and beast, ever ready to stab or kick even those who handled him daily, wild as a buck, but untouched by whip and uncalled by name; who would work with a straining, tearing impatience that there was no checking, ever ready to outpace the rest, and at the outspan standing out alone, hollow-flanked and panting, eyes and nostrils wide with fierceness and distress, yet always ready to start again--a miracle of intense vitality!  And then there was old Zwaartland, the coal-black front ox, and the best of all: the sober steadfast leader of the span, who knew his work by heart and answered with quickened pace to any call of his name; swinging wide at every curve to avoid cutting corners; easing up, yet leading free, at every steep descent, so as neither to rush the incline nor entangle the span; holding his ground, steady as a rock when the big pull came, heedless of how the team swayed and strained--steadfast even when his mate gave in. He stood out from all the rest; the massive horns--like one huge spiral pin passed through his head, eight feet from tip to tip--balancing with easy swing; the clean limbs and small neat feet moving with the quick precision of a buck's tread; and the large grave eyes so soft and clear and deep!

Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick ( Chapter 14 )( Page 2 ) The Berg

The track he took was merely the scorings made by skidding wagons coming down the mountain; it was so steep and rough there that a pull of ten yards between the spells for breath was all one could hope for; and many were thankful to have done much less.  At the second pause, as they were passing us, one of his oxen turned, leaning inwards against the chain, and looked back.  Old Charlie remarked quietly, "I thought he would chuck it; only bought him last week.  He's got no heart." He walked along the span up to the shirking animal, which continued to glare back at him in a frightened way, and touched it behind with the butt of his long whip-stick to bring it up to the yoke.  The ox started forward into place with a jerk, but eased back again slightly as Charlie went back to his place near the after-oxen.  Once more the span went on and the shirker got a smart reminder as Charlie gave the call to start, and he warmed it up well as a lesson while they pulled.  At the next stop it lay back worse than before. Not one driver in a hundred would have done then what he did: they would have tried other courses first.  Charlie dropped his whip quietly and outspanned the ox and its mate, saying to me as I gave him a hand: "When I strike a rotter, I chuck him out before he spoils the others!" in another ten minutes he and his stalwarts had left us behind. Old Charlie knew his oxen--each one of them, their characters and what they could do.  I think he loved them too; at any rate, it was his care for them that day--handling them himself instead of leaving it to his boys--that killed him. Other men had other methods.  Some are by nature brutal; others, only undiscerning or impatient.  Most of them sooner or later realise that they are only harming themselves by ill-treating their own cattle; and that is one--but only the meanest--reason why the white man learns to drive better than the native, who seldom owns the span he drives; the better and bigger reasons belong to the qualities of race and the effects of civilisation.  But, with all this, experience is as essential as ever; a beginner has no balanced judgment, and that explains something that I heard an old transport-rider say in the earliest days-- something which I did not understand then, and heard with resentment and a boy's uppish scorn. "The Lord help the beginner's boys and bullocks: starts by pettin', and ends by killin'.  Too clever to learn; too young to own up; swearin' and sloggin' all the time; and never sets down to _think_ until the boys are gone and the bullocks done!" I felt hot all over, but had learned enough to keep quiet; besides, the hit was not meant for me, although the tip, I believe, was: the hit was at some one else who had just left us--one who had been given a start before he had gained experience and, naturally, was then busy making a mess of things himself and laying down the law for others.  It was when the offender had gone that the old transport-rider took up the general question and finished his observations with a proverb which I had not heard before--perhaps invented it: "Yah!" he said, rising and stretching himself, "there's no rule for a young fool." I did not quite know what he meant, and it seemed safer not to inquire. The driving of bullocks is not an exalted occupation: it is a very humble calling indeed; yet, if one is able to learn, there are things worth learning in that useful school.  But it is not good to stay at school all one's life. Brains and character tell there as everywhere; experience only gives them scope; it is not a substitute.  The men themselves would not tell you so; they never trouble themselves with introspections and analyses, and if you asked one of them the secret of success, he might tell you "Commonsense and hard work," or curtly give you the maxims `Watch it,' and `Stick to it'--which to him express the whole creed, and to you, I suppose, convey nothing.  Among themselves, when the prime topics of loads, rates, grass, water and disease have been disposed of, there is as much interest in talking about their own and each other's oxen as there is in babies at a mothers' meeting.  Spans are compared; individual oxen discussed in minute detail; and the reputations of `front oxen,' in pairs or singly, are canvassed as earnestly as the importance of the subject warrants--for, "The front oxen are half the span," they say.  The simple fact is that they `talk shop,' and when you hear them discussing the characters and qualities of each individual animal you may be tempted to smile in a superior way, but it will not eventually escape you that they think and observe, and that they study their animals and reason out what to do to make the most of them; and when they preach patience, consistency and purpose, it is the fruit of much experience, and nothing more than what the best of them practise.

Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick ( Chapter 14 )( Page 1 ) The Berg

The last day of each trip in the Bush veld was always a day of trial and hard work for man and beast.  The Berg stood up before us like an impassable barrier.  Looked at from below the prospect was despairing-- from above, appalling.  There was no road that the eye could follow. Here and there a broad furrowed streak of red soil straight down some steep grass-covered spur was visible: it looked like a mountain timber-slide or the scour of some tropical storm; and that was all one could see of it from below.  For perhaps a week the towering bulwarks of the High veld were visible as we toiled along--at first only in occasional hazy glimpses, then daily clearer higher and grander, as the great barrier it was. After many hard treks through the broken foothills, with their rocky sideling slopes and boulder-strewn torrent beds, at last the Berg itself was reached.  There, on a flat-topped terrace-like spur where the last outspan was, we took breath, halved our loads, double-spanned, and pulled ourselves together for the last big climb. From there the scoured red streaks stood out revealed as road tracks-- for, made road there was none; from there, lines of whitish rock and loose stones and big boulders, that one had taken for the beds of mountain torrents, stood revealed as bits of `road,' linking up some of the broken sections of the route; but even from there not nearly all the track was visible.  The bumpy rumbling and heavy clattering of wagons on the rocky trail, the shouts of drivers and the crack of whips, mixed with confusing echoes from somewhere above, set one puzzling and searching higher still.  Then in unexpected places here and there other waggons would be seen against the shadowy mountains, creeping up with infinite labour foot by foot, tacking at all sorts of angles, winding by undetected spur and slope and ridge towards the summit--the long spans of oxen and the bulky loads, dwarfed into miniature by the vast background, looking like snails upon a face of rock. To those who do not know, there is not much difference between spans of oxen; and the driving of them seems merely a matter of brute strength in arm and lung.  One span looks like another; and the weird unearthly yells of the drivers, the cracks--like rifle-shots--of the long lashes, and the hum and thud of the more cruel doubled whip, seem to be all that is needed.  But it is not so: heart and training in the cattle, skill and judgment in the driver, are needed there; for the Berg is a searching test of man and beast.  Some, double-spanned and relieved of half their three-ton loads, will stick for a whole day where the pull is steepest, the road too narrow to swing the spans, and the curves too sharp to let the fifteen couples of bewildered and despairing oxen get a straight pull; whilst others will pass along slowly but steadily and without check, knowing what each beast will do and stand, when to urge and when to ease it, when and where to stop them for a blow, and how to get them all leaning to the yoke, ready and willing for the `heave together' that is essential for restarting a heavy load against such a hill.  Patience, understanding, judgment, and decision: those are the qualities it calls for, and here again the white man justifies his claim to lead and rule; for, although they are as ten or twenty to one, there is not a native driver who can compare with the best of the white men. It was on the Berg that I first saw what a really first-class man can do.  There were many waggons facing the pass that day; portions of loads, dumped off to ease the pull, dotted the roadside; tangles of disordered maddened spans blocked the way; and fragments of yokes, skeys, strops, and reims, and broken disselbooms, told the talOld Charlie Roberts came along with his two waggons.  He was `old' with us--being nearly fifty; he was also stout and in poor health.  We buried him at Pilgrim's Rest a week later: the cold, clear air on top of the Berg that night, when he brought the last load up, brought out the fever.  It was his last trek. He walked slowly up past us, to "take a squint at things," as he put it, and see if it was possible to get past the stuck waggons; and a little later he started, making three loads of his two and going up with single spans of eighteen oxen each, because the other waggons, stuck in various places on the road, did not give him room to work double-spans.  To us it seemed madness to attempt with eighteen oxen a harder task than we and others were essaying with thirty; we would have waited until the road ahead was clear. We were half-way up when we saw old Charlie coming along steadily and without any fuss at all.  He had no second driver to help him; he did no shouting; he walked along heavily and with difficulty beside the span, playing the long whip lightly about as he gave the word to go or called quietly to individual oxen by name, but he did not touch them; and when he paused to `blow' them he leaned heavily on his whip-stick to rest himself.  We were stopped by some break in the gear and were completely blocking the road when he caught up.  Any one else would have waited: he pulled out into the rough sideling track on the slope below, to pass us. Even a good span with a good driver may well come to grief in trying to pass another that is stuck--for the sight and example are demoralising-- but old Charlie did not turn a hair; he went steadily on, giving a brisker call and touching up his oxen here and there with light flicks. They used to say he could kill a fly on a front ox or on the toe of his own boot with the voorslag of his big whip.e of trouble.

Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick ( Chapter 13 )( Page 4 )The Allies

But my chief anxiety was to end the wretched escapade as quickly as possible and get the Shangaans on their way again; so I sent Jim back to his place under the waggon, and told the cook-boy to give him the rest of my coffee and half a cup of sugar to provide him with something else to think of and to calm him down. After a wait of half an hour or so, a head appeared just over the rise, and then another and another, at irregular intervals and at various points: they were scouting very cautiously before venturing back again. I sat in the tent-waggon out of sight and kept quiet, hoping that in a few minutes they would gain confidence, collect their goods, and go their way again.  Jim, lying flat under the waggon, was much lower than I was, and--continuing his gabble to the other boys--saw nothing. Unfortunately he looked round just as a scared face peered cautiously over the top of an ant-heap.  The temptation was, I suppose, irresistible: he scrambled to his knees with a pretence of starting afresh and let out one ferocious yell that made my hair stand up; and in that second every head bobbed down and the field was deserted once more. If this went on there could be but one ending: the police would be appealed to, Jim arrested, and I should spend days hanging about the courts waiting for a trial from which the noble Jim would probably emerge with three months' hard labour; so I sallied out as my own herald of peace.  But the position was more difficult than it looked: as soon as the Shangaans saw my head appearing over the rise, they scattered like chaff before the wind, and ran as if they would never stop.  They evidently took me for the advance guard in a fresh attack, and from the way they ran seemed to suspect that Jim and Jock might be doing separate flanking movements to cut them off.  I stood upon an ant-heap and waved and called, but each shout resulted in a fresh spurt and each movement only made them more suspicious.  It seemed a hopeless case, and I gave it up. On the way back to the waggons, however, I thought of Sam--Sam, with his neatly patched European clothes, with the slouchy heavy-footed walk of a nigger in boots, with his slack lanky figure and serious timid face! Sam would surely be the right envoy; even the routed Shangaans would feel that there was nothing to fear there.  But Sam was by no means anxious to earn laurels; he was clearly of the poet's view that "the paths of glory lead but to the grave;" and it was a poor-looking weak-kneed and much dejected scarecrow that dragged its way reluctantly out into the veld to hold parley with the routed enemy that day. At the first mention of Sam's name Jim had twitched round with a snort, but the humour of the situation tickled him when he saw the too obvious reluctance with which his rival received the honour conferred on him. Between rough gusts of laughter Jim rained on him crude ridicule and rude comments; and Sam slouched off with head bent, relieving his heart with occasional clicks and low murmurs of disgust.  How far the new herald would have ventured, if he had not received most unexpected encouragement, is a matter for speculation.  Jim's last shout was to advise him not to hide in an ant-bear hole; but, to Sam's relief, the Shangaans seemed to view him merely as a decoy, even more dangerous than I was; for, as no one else appeared, they had now no idea at all from which quarter the expected attack would come.  They were widely scattered more than half a mile away when Sam came in sight; a brief pause followed in which they looked anxiously around, and then, after some aimless dashes about like a startled troop of buck, they seemed to find the line of flight and headed off in a long string down the valley towards the river. Now, no one had ever run away from Sam before, and the exhilarating sight so encouraged him that he marched boldly on after them.  Goodness knows when, if ever, they would have stopped, if Sam had not met a couple of other natives whom the Shangaans had passed and induced them to turn back and reassure the fugitives. An hour later Sam came back in mild triumph, at the head of the Shangaan gang; and, `clothed in a little brief authority,' stood guard and superintended while they collected their scattered goods--all except the axe that caused the trouble.  That they failed to find.  The owner may have thought it wise to make no claim on me; Sam, if he remembered it, would have seen the Shangaans and all their belongings burned in a pile rather than raise so delicate a question with Jim; I had forgotten all about it--being anxious only to end the trouble and get the Shangaans off; and that villain Jim `lay low.'  At the first outspan from Barberton next day I saw him carving his mark on the handle,  nabashed, under my very nose. The next time Jim got drunk he added something to his opinion of Sam: "Sam no good: Sam leada Bible!  Shangaan, Sam; Shangaan!"