



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Six Months at the Cape, Letters to his friend Periwinkle, by R.M.
Ballantyne.

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Robert Michael Ballantyne was born in 1825 and died in 1894.  He was
educated at the Edinburgh Academy, and in 1841 he became a clerk with
the Hudson Bay Company, working at the Red River Settlement in Northen
Canada until 1847, arriving back in Edinburgh in 1848.  The letters he
had written home were very amusing in their description of backwoods
life, and his family publishing connections suggested that he should
construct a book based on these letters.  Three of his most enduring
books were written over the next decade, "The Young Fur Traders",
"Ungava", "The Hudson Bay Company", and were based on his experiences
with the H.B.C.  In this period he also wrote "The Coral island" and
"Martin Rattler", both of these taking place in places never visited by
Ballantyne.  Having been chided for small mistakes he made in these
books, he resolved always to visit the places he wrote about.  With
these books he became known as a great master of literature intended for
teenagers.  He researched the Cornish Mines, the London Fire Brigade,
the Postal Service, the Railways, the laying down of submarine telegraph
cables, the construction of light-houses, the light-ship service, the
life-boat service, South Africa, Norway, the North Sea fishing fleet,
ballooning, deep-sea diving, Algiers, and many more, experiencing the
lives of the men and women in these settings by living with them for
weeks and months at a time, and he lived as they lived.

He was a very true-to-life author, depicting the often squalid scenes he
encountered with great care and attention to detail.  His young readers
looked forward eagerly to his next books, and through the 1860s and
1870s there was a flow of books from his pen, sometimes four in a year,
all very good reading.  The rate of production diminished in the last
ten or fifteen years of his life, but the quality never failed.

He published over ninety books under his own name, and a few books for
very young children under the pseudonym "Comus".

For today's taste his books are perhaps a little too religious, and what
we would nowadays call "pi".  In part that was the way people wrote in
those days, but more important was the fact that in his days at the Red
River Settlement, in the wilds of Canada, he had been a little
dissolute, and he did not want his young readers to be unmindful of how
they ought to behave, as he felt he had been.

Some of his books were quite short, little over 100 pages.  These books
formed a series intended for the children of poorer parents, having less
pocket-money.  These books are particularly well-written and researched,
because he wanted that readership to get the very best possible for
their money.  They were published as six series, three books in each
series.  One of these series is "On the Coast", which includes "Saved by
the Lifeboat".

Re-created as an e-Text by Nick Hodson, October 1998, reviewed February
2003.

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SIX MONTHS AT THE CAPE, LETTERS TO HIS FRIEND PERIWIMKLE, BY R.M.
BALLANTYNE.



LETTER ONE.

"A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE."

South Africa.

Dear Periwinkle,--Since that memorable, not to say miserable, day, when
you and I parted at Saint Katherine's Docks, [see note 1], with the rain
streaming from our respective noses--rendering tears superfluous, if not
impossible--and the noise of preparation for departure damaging the
fervour of our "farewell"--since that day, I have ploughed with my
"adventurous keel" upwards of six thousand miles of the "main," and now
write to you from the wild Karroo of Southern Africa.

The Karroo is not an animal.  It is a spot--at present a lovely spot.  I
am surrounded by--by nature and all her southern abundance.  Mimosa
trees, prickly pears, and aloes remind me that I am not in England.
Ostriches, stalking on the plains, tell that I am in Africa.  It is not
much above thirty years since the last lion was shot in this region,
[see note 2], and the kloofs, or gorges, of the blue mountains that
bound the horizon are, at the present hour, full of "Cape-tigers," wild
deer of different sorts, baboons, monkeys, and--but hold!  I must not
forestall.  Let me begin at the beginning.

The adventurous keel above referred to was not, as you know, my own
private property.  I shared it with some two hundred or so of human
beings, and a large assortment of the lower animals.  Its name was the
"Windsor Castle"--one of a magnificent line of ocean steamers belonging
to an enterprising British firm.

There is something appallingly disagreeable in leave-taking.  I do not
refer now to the sentiment, but to the manner of it.  Neither do I hint,
my dear fellow, at _your_ manner of leave-taking.  Your abrupt "Well,
old boy, _bon voyage_, good-bye, bless you," followed by your prompt
retirement from the scene, was perfect in its way, and left nothing to
be desired; but leave-takings in general--how different!

Have you never stood on a railway platform to watch the starting of an
express?

Of course you have, and you have seen the moist faces of those two young
sisters, who had come to "see off" that dear old aunt, who had been more
than a mother to them since that day, long ago, when they were left
orphans, and who was leaving them for a few months, for the first time
for many years; and you have observed how, after kissing and weeping on
her for the fiftieth time, they were forcibly separated by the
exasperated guard; and the old lady was firmly, yet gently thrust into
her carriage, and the door savagely locked with one hand, while the
silver whistle was viciously clapt to the lips with the other, and the
last "goo-ood--bye--d-arling!" was drowned by a shriek, and puff and
clank, as the train rolled off.

You've seen it all, have you not, over and over again, in every degree
and modification?  No doubt you have, and as it is with parting humanity
at railway stations, so is it at steamboat wharves.

There are differences, however.  After you had left, I stood and
sympathised with those around me, and observed that there is usually
more emotion on a wharf than on a platform--naturally enough, as, in the
case of long sea voyages, partings, it may be presumed, are for longer
periods, and dangers are supposed to be greater and more numerous than
in land journeys,--though this is open to question.  The waiting
process, too, is prolonged.  Even after the warning bell had sent
non-voyagers ashore, they had to stand for a considerable time in the
rain while we cast off our moorings or went through some of those
incomprehensible processes by which a leviathan steamer is moved out of
dock.

After having made a first false move, which separated us about three
yards from the wharf--inducing the wearied friends on shore to brighten
up and smile, and kiss hands, and wave kerchiefs, with that energy of
decision which usually marks a really final farewell--our steamer
remained in that position for full half an hour, during which period we
gazed from the bulwarks, and our friends gazed from under their dripping
umbrellas across the now impassable gulf in mute resignation.

At that moment a great blessing befell us.  A boy let his cap drop from
the wharf into the water!  It was an insignificant matter in itself, but
it acted like the little safety-valve which prevents the bursting of a
high-pressure engine.  Voyagers and friends no longer looked at each
other like melancholy imbeciles.  A gleam of intense interest suffused
every visage, intelligence sparkled in every eye, as we turned and
concentrated our attention on that cap!  The unexpressed blessing of the
whole company, ashore and afloat, descended on the uncovered head of
that boy, who, all unconscious of the great end he was fulfilling, made
frantic and futile efforts with a long piece of stick to recover his
lost property.

But we did at last get under weigh, and then there were some touches of
real pathos.  I felt no disposition to note the humorous elements around
when I saw that overgrown lad of apparently eighteen summers, press to
the side and wave his thin hands in adieu to an elderly lady on shore,
while tears that he could not, and evidently did not care to restrain,
ran down his hollow cheeks.  He had no friend on board, and was being
sent to the Cape for the benefit of his health.  So, too, was another
young man--somewhere between twenty and thirty years--whose high colour,
brilliant eye, and feeble step told their own tale.  But this man was
not friendless.  His young wife was there, and supported him with tender
solicitude towards a seat.  These two were in the after-cabin.  Among
the steerage passengers the fell disease was represented in the person
of a little boy.  "Too late" was written on the countenances of at least
two of these,--the married man and the little boy.

As to the healthy passengers, what shall I say of them?  Need I tell you
that every species of humanity was represented?

There were tall men, and short men, as well as men broad and narrow,--
mentally, not less than physically.  There were ladies pretty, and
ladies plain, as well as grave and gay.  Fat and funny ones we had, also
lean ones and sad.  The wise and foolish virgins were represented.  So
too were smokers and drinkers; and not a few earnest, loving, and
lovable, men and women.

A tendency had been gaining on me of late to believe that, after passing
middle-life, a man cannot make new and enthusiastic friendships.  Never
was I more mistaken.  It is now my firm conviction that men may and do
make friendships of the closest kind up to the end of their career.  Of
course the new friends do not, and cannot, take the place of the old.
It seems to me that they serve a higher purpose, and, by enabling one to
realise the difference between the old and the new, draw the cords of
ancient friendship tighter.  At all events, you may depend upon it, my
dear Periwinkle, that no new friend shall ever tumble _you_ out of the
niche which you occupy in my bosom!

But be this as it may, it is a fact that in my berth--which held four,
and was full all the voyage--there was a tall, dark, powerful,
middle-aged man, an Englishman born in Cape Colony, [see note 3], who
had been "home" for a trip, and was on his way out again to his African
home on the great Karroo.  This man raised within me feelings of disgust
when I first saw him in the dim light of our berth, because he was big,
and I knew that a big man requires more air to fill his lungs than a
little one, and there was no superabundant air in our berth--quite the
reverse.  This man occupied the top berth opposite to mine.  Each
morning as I awoke my eyes fell on his beard of iron-grey, and I gazed
at his placid countenance till he awoke--or I found his placid
countenance gazing at me when _I_ awoke.  From gazing to nodding in
recognition is an easy step in ordinary circumstances, but not when
one's head is on one's pillow.  We therefore passed at once, without the
ceremony of nodding, into a quiet "good morning."  Although reticent, he
gradually added a smile to the "good morning," and I noticed that his
smile was a peculiarly pleasant one.  Steps that succeed the "first" are
generally easy.  From disliking this man--not on personal, but purely
selfish grounds--I came to like him; then to love him.  I have reason to
believe that the attachment was mutual.  His name--why should I not
state it?  I don't think he would object--is Hobson.

In the bunk below Hobson lay a young Wesleyan minister.  He was a
slender young fellow,--modest and thoughtful.  If Hobson's bunk had
given way, I fear that his modesty and thoughtfulness might have been
put to a severe test.  I looked down upon this young Wesleyan from my
materially exalted position, but before the voyage was over I learned to
look up to him from a spiritually low position.  My impression is that
he was a "meek" man.  I may be mistaken, but of this am I certain, that
he was one of the gentlest, and at the same time one of the most able
men in the ship.

But, to return to my berth--which, by the way, I was often loth to do,
owing to the confined air below, and the fresh glorious breezes on
deck--the man who slept under me was a young banker, a clerk, going out
to the Cape to make his fortune, and a fine capable-looking fellow he
was, inclined rather to be receptive than communicative.  He frequently
bumped me with his head in getting up; I, not unfrequently, put a foot
upon his nose, or toes, in getting down.

What can I say about the sea that has not been said over and over again
in days of old?  This, however, is worthy of record, that we passed the
famous Bay of Biscay in a dead-calm.  We did not "lay" one single "day"
on that "Bay of Biscay, O!"  The "O!" seems rather awkwardly to imply
that I am not stating the exact truth, but I assure you that it is a
fact.  More than this, we had not a storm all the way to the Cape.  It
was a pure pleasure excursion--a sort of yacht voyage--from beginning to
end; very pleasant at the time, and delightful now to dwell upon; for,
besides the satisfaction of making a new friend like Hobson, there were
others to whom I was powerfully drawn, both by natural sympathy and
intellectual bias.

There was a Wesleyan minister, also an Englishman, born in South Africa,
and of the race of Anak, with whom, and his amiable wife, and pretty
children, I fraternised ardently.  My soul was also gladdened by
intercourse with a clergyman of the Dutch-Reformed Church, well-known in
the Cape, and especially in the Transva