We now traversed a fine
open grassy country, very desolate, with no human habitation. The only
signs of life were various fine "pows"[24] stalking sedately along, or
"korans," starting up with their curious chuckle rather like the note
of a pheasant, or a covey of guinea-fowl scurrying across the road and
losing themselves in the waving grass. Meanwhile the driver kept up an
incessant conversation with the mules, and I found myself listening to
his varying epithets with stupefied curiosity. During that four hours'
drive we only met two natives and one huge herd of cattle, which were
being driven by mounted Kaffirs, armed with rifles, to Mosita, our
destination, where it was hoped they would be out of the way of
marauding Boers. At last we reached the native stadt of Mosita, where
our appearance created great excitement. Crowds of swarthy men and
youths rushed out to question our driver as to news. The latter waxed
eloquent in words and gestures, imitating even the noise of the big gun,
which seemed to produce great enthusiasm among these simple folk. Their
ruling passion, I afterwards found, was hatred and fear of the Boers,
and their dearest wish to possess guns and ammunition to join the
English in driving them back and to defend their cattle. In the distance
we could see the glimmering blue waters of a huge dam, beyond which was
the farm and homestead of a loyal colonial farmer named Keeley, whose
hospitality I had been told to seek.
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