At the Fireside--Volume 1 (4 page)

The story of Dina Chambers

The story of Dina Chambers

The old, now deserted town of Schoemansdal was certainly once a busy town with a vigorous crowd of inhabitants and plenty of interest and excitement. Inevitably, there were many quarrels and fights. The truculent Commandant-General Schoeman was the centre of most of the local upheavals, and one of these quarrels started an epic venture both fantastic and heroic.

When quarrels culminated in the unhappy Burgher Civil War in Pretoria, Schoeman gathered his supporters in the town named after him. He decided to seize the town's defensive armament, which comprised two muzzle-loading cannons of the type known as ‘Ou Grietjie'.

This act enraged the burghers of Schoemansdal, for it left the town defenceless against the local Africans, who were in a very belligerent mood on account of the occupation of their land by the Boers. Hard words were freely bandied about. Piet Eloff, the Veldkornet, and John Chambers, a deserter from the British army who had settled in the town in 1849 and married a local twenty-year old Afrikaner maiden, Dina Gertruida Fourie, were particularly articulate. The bitter wrangling eventually led to Chambers' swearing that he would blow Schoeman to the Devil before he would let him take the guns away from the town.

Schoeman finally galloped off on his horse, threatening Chambers with dire retribution when times were more opportune. Periodically threats and abuse reached Chambers from Pretoria, as a reminder that Schoeman had not forgotten. When a rumour reached Chambers in 1858 that Schoeman had actually set out on his vengeful return, he decided to leave the town for the safety of the wilderness.

So, on 5 June 1859 John Chambers, his wife Dina and their four children, with one of Dina's brothers, David Fourie, who was a keen hunter, and one Jakobus Lottering and his wife and child, left Schoemansdal and headed for the eastern bushveld. Along the banks of the Luvuvhu River, sometimes known as the Phaphuli (Pafuri), from the Venda clan of that name, they followed in the tracks of the unfortunate Van Rensburg trek. As they travelled, hunting and prospecting, malevolent mosquitoes started to take their toll, and one by one the party sickened. But they pressed on.

First Lottering's wife died and was buried in a now long-forgotten grave. Then the child followed her mother and soon the Chambers children also sickened. But on they pressed, shooting elephants and prospecting in the bush. Through the lonely Lebombo range, they reached the flats of Mozambique with its endless miles of heat and bush. The evil tsetse flies were busy at their oxen and at the Save River, all their spans died. Abandoning their wagons, the whole party set off on foot. On the way David Fourie died and Lottering, having lost his entire family, parted company with the Chambers family and wandered off to prospect on his own, returning later to the Transvaal.

The Chambers family trudged on towards Sofala, that dreary little port whose name has always been associated with tales of gold, ivory and the slave trade. They reached Sofala on 8 November 1859, and the hospitable Portuguese did their best to make them comfortable after so cruel a journey.

All four of the Chambers children had died. Wandering through the insalubrious streets of the ancient port of gold, Chambers sickened of Africa and resolved to take his wife and himself off to England. In order to raise funds for this trip, he decided to return to the abandoned wagons and burn them to obtain the iron used in their construction. This he planned to barter with the Africans in exchange for ivory, which he would then sell to finance the passage to England.

Leaving Dina in the care of the Portuguese Governor, Chambers returned safely to the wagons. He burned them and spent a couple of months trading and hunting with a friendly local chief named Sewane.

But by then the busy mosquitoes had worked their insidious poison. Chambers fell sick and, seeing death come stealing out of the bushveld glades to take him, he called for Sewane. ‘You and I have been good friends', he said, ‘I beg of you a favour. Take the ivory and all my possessions. Exchange them for food and money and take my wife from Sofala back to her parents in the Transvaal.'

So it happened that one morning, there strode into drowsy Sofala the warrior Induna Makakikiyane and fifty stalwart men. They bartered their load of ivory with the Goan merchants and then presented themselves at the Governor's house. ‘Your man has sent us to fetch you', they told the excited Dina, and showed her some of his possessions – but not another word would they say.

Gaily she packed her possessions, thanked the anxious Portuguese and the Governor and set off into the wilderness with fifty-one taciturn warriors marching protectively around her. When they were attacked by hostile Africans, she was guarded. When she sickened and wearied, they built a litter and carried her, and fed her on venison and wild fruits.

When finally they reached the old chief's kraal, Dina looked around eagerly for her husband and, silently, Sewane led her to his grave. In grief and loneliness she lay and almost died of misery and fever. For some weeks the inscrutable tribeswomen cared for her, nursing her with herbs of the veld and ancient remedies that only they knew.

Then the Induna came with his fifty warriors and the litter. They had promised her husband to take her home and this they would, be she dead or alive. They picked her up and set off through the bush, having at times to fight off hostile tribes and robbers, as well as wild animals. So precarious was the journey that they could not even light a fire at night, for fear of attracting the attention of the marauding bands that infested the countryside at that time.

Sometimes Dina walked and sometimes she was carried. The Save River was full when they reached it, so the warriors made a raft. For a whole day they laboured to cross the mighty river, while its chocolate-coloured floodwaters surged down past them, laden with driftwood and floating islands of vegetation. Beyond the river they trudged on. One morning, as they were travelling through a forest of baobab trees, one of the warriors suddenly called Dina and led her to a tree. Beneath it was a mound of stones, and on the trunk was carved a name. It was Dina's father. He had heard, through the mysterious, apparently telepathic, system by which news travels through the African bush, that the Chambers' party was in trouble. The old man, together with his son Gert, had set out to rescue them. Then the mosquitoes had come and there, beneath the baobab tree, he slept forever.

This fresh blow prostrated Dina. She lay and wept in her misery, and would have willingly abandoned herself to death. Around her, the puzzled warriors stood and wondered what had caused her grief, for, as they had no language in common, the carving on the tree was meaningless to them. But the warriors had their orders. They picked her up, bundled her weeping onto the litter and plodded on. Four months and twenty-eight days it took them before they eventually reached the Limpopo River, 320 km from their village. By then Dina was almost dead. On the bank of the river she carved a despairing message onto a piece of wood and sent it off with a runner.

João Albassini, in his fort, received the message and passed it on immediately to Dina's brother Gert. Riding post-haste to the river 120 km away, he met her and carried her back to the kindly care of the Albassini family. It was on the first day of March 1861 that Dina returned to civilisation. The gallant and faithful bodyguards, who had been so true to their promise, tramped down a few days later and were feasted, given presents and thanked. They were then seen off, with much pomp and ceremony, back to the wilds from where they had come.

Dina rested with the Albassini family until she was completely recovered. Then having made her unwilling bow on the stage of history, she returned to the obscure wings again, but not without a final curtain of happiness. While convalescing at the Albassinis she met a certain Jan Hemelyn, whom she married two years later and with whom she lived to a ripe age with some happiness, as compensation for her former pain.

As for Schoemansdal, it marvelled for a while at her poignant adventure and then soon forgot. Its own story was to be tragic enough and, in its own tears, it had little time for sympathy with the troubles of others.

The King of the Hottentots

The King of the Hottentots

In H E Hockley's excellent book on the 1820 Settlers, there is a paragraph recalling that during the reign of James I of England, some men who had been condemned to death for various crimes were given the option of proceeding to the Cape of Good Hope (Saldania, as it was then known), to start a settlement there. The leader of this band, elected by his fellow convicts, was a gentleman rogue, one James Crosse, a convicted highwayman who had once been a captain of the Yeomanry. They later established themselves on Robben Island, making periodic sorties to the mainland. Unfortunately, on one of these trips their boat was wrecked on the island, effectively marooning them. This amazing story of who the first white settlers at the Cape really were was uncovered by John Cope of South Africa and researched mostly in Britain.

However, to digress slightly, some time before this, in May 1613, a British East Indiaman, the
Hector
was anchored in Table Bay. The chief of the local Khoikhoi, named Xhore, was lured aboard together with one of his men and taken back to England. His companion died on the voyage, but Xhore was made of sterner stuff. In London he stayed with Sir Thomas Smythe and was taught the English language and observed English customs and way of life. Xhoré stayed in London for almost a year, and was then put aboard the
Hector.
On 18 June 1614, he set foot back on Cape soil, wearing a new suit of brass armour that had been specially made for him.

To return to the story of the English convicts at the Cape. The Newgate Prison records tell us that there were a total of seventeen condemned men given the option of either being hanged or banished to the Cape. One escaped in the ship's pinnace after sailing from Sandwich, two were taken on to India, and four died of scurvy during the passage.

The ten remaining men were set ashore at the Cape with provisions, weapons (but no guns) and a long boat in case of trouble. When the fleet departed, the local Khoikhoi became hostile as Xhore had related his London experiences and said that the whites were going to take over the Khoikhoi land and there was nothing anybody could do to stop them. How very prophetic his words were to prove! He had witnessed the awesome might of the British army, and he suggested that they get rid of these people post-haste. Four of the unsuspecting men set out to visit Xhore's village and were ambushed along the way. One was killed outright and two others wounded. They made it back to camp and, along with the others, fled to Robben Island in the longboat, which as related above was later wrecked.

Eventually, a passing vessel, the
New Year Gift
, commanded by Captain Martin Pring, sailed into Table Bay on 1 March 1616. Xhore came down to the beach and told the sailors that Captain Crosse and his men were living on the island. Pring immediately sent over the ship's pinnace, which returned with three of the Newgate men. Captain Pring's log tells us how Captain Crosse, seeing the ship at anchor, made a raft out of the now wrecked longboat and, together with two other men, tried to row out to the vessel. The raft capsized, however, and they drowned. The
Gift
then set sail for England with the three men who were willing to go back to England.

The remaining three men decided not to risk going back. Perhaps they were right, because the
Gift
had been anchored at Sandwich for no more than two hours when the three escaped overboard. Being penniless and hungry, they stole a purse from an old woman in the town and the constabulary found them in the local tavern, drinking ale. When the records were checked, they realized that these men had been condemned to death. They were taken to Hanging Fields just outside of Sandwich and suitably dispatched.

The fate of the three who stayed behind is a mystery, for when another fleet arrived with more convicts three months later, there was no sign of them. The convicts on this fleet begged to be hanged in preference to being left there, but in vain. Commodore Joseph's orders were clear, so he sailed away without them. Luckily for them however, the
Swan
came to their aid. Captain Davis took pity on them and transported them to India. Thus it was in 1616, a full thirty-six years before the coming of Jan van Riebeeck, that the first white settlers at the Cape came to a sticky end. The English abandoned the Cape, and it cost them three expensive expeditions and two battles before they got it back again in 1806.

Alfred Aylward, the Lydenburg Volunteers and the Gunn of Gunn

Alfred Aylward, the Lydenburg Volunteers and the Gunn of Gunn

During the latter half of his incumbency, the unfortunate Thomas Burgers, President of the Transvaal Republic, raised two mercenary forces. The Middelburg Volunteers were placed at Fort Weeber under Commandant Ignatius Ferreira. Conrad Hans von Schlickman, an experienced Captain who had served in the Prussian Army during the Franco-Prussian War, was placed in charge of the Lydenburg Volunteers at Fort Burgers. Burgers appointed as a recruiting agent in Kimberley, an unusual character named Alfred Aylward who, after a dubious period in journalism, instigated the miners to rise in the so-called Black Flag Rebellion in Kimberley. The High Commissioner's response was to send the 24th Regiment of Foot marching up to Kimberley, all the way from Cape Town, a distance of some 960 km. Aylward got wind of the Regiment's approach and the Black Flag Rebellion petered out. In October of 1876 Aylward, with seventy ‘rough diamonds' recruited from the bars and the ranks of the unemployed, was already making his way northward towards Fort Burgers.

A short digression may be in order here to trace the subsequent fortunes of the 24th Regiment of Foot. They were turned around at Kimberley and marched all the way to Grahamstown, a distance of some 750 km, where they took part in the Ninth Frontier War. When the war was over they were marched to Durban, re-kitted and marched to Isandlwana where they died almost to a man. To hear that story told most superbly you must hear it from David Rattray of Fugitives Drift.

But to return to the main story. In September of 1876 Mpehle led an attack on Fort Burgers and, sweeping down from the heights of Marone, captured forty-three head of cattle. The Volunteers who had given chase were ambushed in a ravine and spears rained down on them from the heights. Lieutenant Krapp and George Robus died in the skirmish. The arrival of Aylward and his motley international crew was most welcome. Von Schlickman led his force northwards in a raid against the Pedi. Their plan was to raid some kraals in a valley some 15 km away, known as Mehera's Kloof, but the Pedi guide led them into a well-laid ambush. The kraals were found abandoned and when the Volunteers entered a narrow valley, the Pedi opened fire on them. In the fight, Von Schlickman was mortally wounded and the dead and the dying were carried back on crude litters made of torn shirts and handkerchiefs. The entire episode had been a disaster. Aylward had to wait until December for his formal appointment as Commandant following the death of Von Schlickman. But his greatest rival was yet to come.

On 20 December 1876 there arrived in Pretoria one of the most astonishing personalities ever to strut the stage of Transvaal history. His name was Charles Grant Murray Somerset Stuart Gunn, a highland laird with the title of ‘The Gunn of Gunn and the Lord of Farquhar'. A handsome man some thirty-six years of age, he claimed that he had served in the 13th Hussars from the age of sixteen and had fled to South Africa in 1871 after killing a man in a duel. He arrived in Pretoria accompanied by twenty-two recruits for the Lydenburg Volunteers, all dressed in blue Hussar tunics with yellow braid, white caps, colourless cord riding-breeches and stockings. This assembly of men he drilled up and down Market Square in full view of the Volksraad and President Burgers. The Gunn had a very glib tongue. He dropped names of British aristocrats and spoke airily of having been awarded both the Victoria and the Iron Cross in sundry hair-raising adventures. In constant attendance upon his person were two lackeys and a highland piper. Night after night, The Gunn entertained guests at the Pretoria Hotel whilst the piper made the night hideous by striding up and down, squeezing out paeans of praise to his lord and master. Everybody from the President down was extremely impressed with Gunn's outfit and the Transvaal Government immediately hired them, dispatching them to the frontier to join forces with Aylward.

After recruiting nine more men in Pretoria, the Laird and his self-styled ‘Gunn Highlanders' left for the ‘Front'. The journey to Lydenburg was marked by their excesses. They drank, made free with the farmers' fruit and poultry, hogs and daughters, and generally had the surrounding countryside by the ear. At Lydenburg The Gunn, in no hurry to get to Fort Burgers, lingered for some time. He loved to ‘do the polite' to the ladies and on such occasions his kilted piper, dressed in full regalia, would precede his master and parade up and down outside making music. Stafford Parker, the former President of the Diamond Diggers Republic, had settled in Lydenburg and The Gunn had selected Parker's wife for one of these visits. Everything went according to plan except that the passage outside the drawing room ended in a dark corner and a steep flight of stairs. The dark comer proved the end of the piper as well. Carried away by his music, he tumbled down the stairs, sending the screams of a million Scottish demons from his pipes as his head went through the bag, ending his music for quite some time.

The end of The Gunn of Gunn was not so sudden. After spending Christmas in Lydenburg, he marched his ‘Gunn Highlanders' up to Fort Burgers, claiming that President Burgers himself had appointed him to take command of the fort. Aylward, however, was well prepared, having been expecting this sort of thing for quite some time now. The news of The Gunn's activities had preceded him by weeks. A number of the Highlanders had already been arrested at Ksugerspost for riotous behaviour and when The Gunn arrived at Fort Burgers, he found he had met his match.

His men were drawn up on the parade ground and Alfred Aylward promptly ran out a cannon on their flank, ordering them, one and all, to lay down their arms. Nonplussed, the Highlanders obeyed. Aylward then gave them a dressing down, but not too harshly, as his adjutant reminded him that he himself had been a rebel of some renown.

The Gunn and a few of his cronies were immediately arrested, while the other men were accepted into the corps. The Gunn was sent back to Pretoria to stand trial on various charges of public disturbance, found guilty and sent to gaol. When Theophilus Shepstone raised the British flag in Pretoria in April 1877 and annexed the Transvaal for the Crown, one of his first acts was to declare a general amnesty for prisoners and fugitives from justice in the Transvaal. And of course, one of those to walk out of gaol was The Gunn of Gunn. But such characters hardly ever learn their lesson and, after a scandal caused by his alleged liaison with the wife of Colonel Weatherley, The Gunn melts away into the shadows of history, never to be heard of again.