Читать книгу Yankee Girls in Zulu Land - Louise Vescelius Sheldon - Страница 7

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The voyage from Madeira to the Cape was simply delightful. A fortnight, during which we had crossed the equator through the heat of the tropics, had elapsed, when we found ourselves one morning at dawn of day approaching the rocky and precipitous shores of the Island of Saint Helena. It had a most rugged appearance, which was heightened by its lonely position, the island rising almost perpendicularly on all sides, in some places of to the height of one thousand to twelve hundred feet. Our steamer was to remain several hours, and many of the passengers took advantage of the delay to go ashore and see the spot made so famous as the scene of exile of Napoleon. The entrance to the island is guarded by natural walls of stone towering above the steamer, and looking so stern and cruel. A feeling of desolation was on us as we walked up the one narrow, deserted street, with its filthy, repulsive-looking inhabitants of dusky-coloured men and women. This spot was once all life and glitter with the pride of the British Navy, when Saint Helena was the port for the finest of British vessels to harbour in, on their way to India by the Cape but all that glory belongs now to history. What a terrible sense of desolation must have filled that great man’s heart in his rock-bound prison, where escape was impossible; his jail possessed but one gateway, and that led into the boundless ocean.

We chartered some cadaverous frameworks which some dirty little boys assured us were horses. Getting into a clattering vehicle, we were taken to Longwood, for six years the home of the weary exile. ’Tis a long, low building, very prettily situated at the head of a lovely valley in the centre of the island.

His tomb lies lower down the glen. As we stood there, we could not but think of the other tomb in Paris, with its gilded dome, vying with the surrounding pinnacles to reach high heaven. I remember one sunny day in Paris entering this temple; the sun was streaming through the yellow stained-glass windows upon the marble pillars in the rear of the building, making them appear like columns of gold; everything seemed to be praising the life of their great hero.

Quite different, this, his resting-place. On this misty morning at Saint Helena, as I stood in the grand silence beside this simple tomb, which seemed to tell the story of this weary-hearted man, I felt that no one could doubt, after visiting this spot, that Napoleon believed in a Higher Ruler, a Superior Being; otherwise his own hand would have cut short his dreary existence.

This visit of a few hours’ duration was sufficient to cast a gloom over us. So, picking a few leaves from the grave, we came down to the shore again, and the dear old ship seemed like a kind heart waiting to receive us, and cheer away our loneliness.

We still had an hour to spare, and several of our party decided to ascend “Jacob’s ladder,” by which name is known a long flight of steps reaching from the beach to the heights, said to be the longest stairway in the world. The barracks are built on the cliff, and an English garrison is stationed there. We climbed these hundreds of steps and walked on to the parade ground, where the men were drilling; as soon as the officer in command spied us he seemed to lose his presence of mind, and the end man in the line turned one eye over his shoulder to see what was the matter, so did the next man; in time it was a funny sight to see the body of the whole line of men in position, but all heads turned to see the visitors. The sentry stationed there welcomed us with an expression of delight. Poor fellow! he said that they had received no mail for sixty days, the steamers calling at the island only at long intervals. When asked if it was not a dreary life, he shook his head and looked out to sea with moistened eyes, more eloquent than any words in expressing the monotony of the existence.

I have heard of a man who, wanting to see the world, enlisted in an English regiment, and was stationed on the island of Saint Helena for fourteen years.

As we were leaving the island one of the little nondescripts came laughing past, and in the most workmanlike manner picked my pocket of its purse. He was caught before he could get away, when he cried bitterly, not so much, apparently, at being detected as for not being allowed to keep his ill-gotten gains.

Here is a spot for one whose soul is yearning for untried missionary fields. The interior of the island is said to be beautiful, flowers and foliage growing in great luxuriance.

Leaving Saint Helena, we sailed southeast in a straight course for Table Bay; for two days after leaving the island, our table was decorated with fresh tropical flowers and fruits in great variety. We here felt the influence of the heavy ground swell, which the sailors say is a peculiarity of those latitudes, and has given rise to the burden of a sailor’s song, “Rolling Down to Saint Helena.”

At sunrise of the twenty-eighth day after leaving London, having passed through the “summer voyage of the world,” we sighted the long, flat-topped mountain which has given its name to the bay that lies at its foot.

When we first sighted it, it appeared like a huge solitary rock standing in the midst of the ocean, but as we gradually steamed up to the arms of Table Bay, which opens to the north-west, the town nestling at the foot of the mountain became visible, and as we brought up to allow the port captain and health officer to come on board, the scene came more clearly into view. The mountains outlined clearly against the sky, the mauve and golden-tinted clouds, the deep blue water of the bay, edged with a white and curving shore of singular beauty, surmounted by bold, rocky mountain ranges, combined to form one of the most striking views we had ever seen.

We will never lose the impression of South African scenery received that morning. We had bidden farewell to the smoky fogs of London, and had changed them for a country that was rich and brilliant, where the atmosphere was surprisingly bright and clear, and the scenery bold, spacious, and grand.

The long range of mountains which completely separates the Peninsula of the Cape of Good Hope from the mainland, though at a distance of seventy miles, stood out with a sharply defined outline in the morning air, the ravines, water courses, and terraced heights appearing with almost supernatural clearness. The characteristic beauty of light, which distinguishes South Africa, was seen in the full and even splendour with which every object, near and remote, became visible. Small boulders, cavernous hollows in the rocks, patches of brush at the head of the kloofs, at an elevation of two thousand feet, could be seen without difficulty. We gazed spellbound at the distant mountain, seemingly so near that we could have seen a human figure were it climbing the heights, or heard a human voice if it broke the silence of the kloofs. And it was not until the revolving of the screw warned us that we were to enter the docks that we awoke from the reverie into which the first view of the country had thrown us. Hastening below, we made preparations for leaving the ship which had been our home for four pleasant, all too fleeting weeks, and on emerging on deck we found the vessel had already entered the well-built stone docks, and was then being made fast to the quay. Shaking hands with Captain Lamar and our other friends on the ship whom we should meet later on in our journey up the country, we told the Malay porter where to find our belongings amongst the luggage of the two hundred passengers aboard, took one last look at the good ship, walked down the gangway, and found ourselves fairly on South African soil, ten thousand miles from the “Old Folks at Home.”