Into the Lion's Den: A True Story Set in 1820 Africa

By Angela d'Egville

What drives thousands of British immigrants to trade their opulent lives in Regency England for the untamed shores of a wild Africa?

 

This was the question that sparked UK-based author, Angela D'Egville, to delve deeply into her family's past with this gripping, fact-based historical novel nearly two centuries after their arrival on southern African shores.

 

Into the Lion's Den follows the story of dashing Irish jeweller, Samson O'Malia Daniel, and the stunning Amelia Margarith d'Egville from the famous French dancing family of the Drury Lane Theater in London, and how they make their way to Africa as unwitting pawns in a bloody political struggle.

 

Follow the lives and times of the British immigrants who set sail for Africa aboard the Sir Osborne in 1820 from the perspective of Samson, Amelia, and their four young children.

 

Along with around four thousand other British immigrants, the young couple forge their way under harsh conditions as Britain and the indigenous Xhosa people fought for both land and power. A lifelong romance, the story highlights the raw realities the British experienced as they settled in the Eastern Cape of southern Africa in this story of courage, tenacity, and sheer determination.

 

Into the Lion's Den promises the reader an intimate look into the love, passion, hardship, heartbreak, tribulation, betrayal, and triumph experienced by the British subjects who arrived on South African shores in search of a better life for themselves and their loved ones. A must-read for any lover of historical fiction. Grab your copy today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Angela d'Egville
• Release date: Oct 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9780620631907

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INTRODUCTION

Each person has a story to tell. Some people and families pass through this world undetected. Others have their stories broadcast.

Some trails into the past are easy to trace, whilst others remain elusive. It seems in most families there is one person curious enough to find out more about the ancestors whose lives have a direct influence on the present. Genetics, DNA, lifestyle choices and the power of words, shape and mould people throughout the generations. Sometimes, descendants are unwittingly touched by unseen blessings or curses passed down through their family lineage.

This story began as a simple linear journey. But after years of research, it evolved into a colourful tapestry of the Daniel clan.

Names of Daniel ancestors and their descendants’ dates of births, marriages and deaths found in various archives throughout Ireland, France, South Africa and the United Kingdom, formed part of the initial research. Daniel genealogists added valuable contributions. The facts soon developed a mind of their own and unfolded into a living, breathing narrative with real characters from the past demanding to have their stories told.

This is the chronicle of the Daniel family of Africa, as the author perceives it. Although based on actual facts, it is a work of fiction.

Into the Lion’s Den – the Daniel family of Africa is a novel about an 1820 Settler family in South Africa. It begins in the refined jewellery and theatre worlds of Regency London and Edinburgh in the United Kingdom. It then winds its way into the forbidding world of the rugged, untamed Africa of the early nineteenth century.

It is not a history of South Africa, although the author has endeavoured to keep dates and facts accurate. Some characters were real people who lived in that era, while others are fictional.

It is a love story. It is a tale of the power of man to overcome adversity and win – sometimes. It is a story of the fight for survival of varied cultures in an unforgiving land – each fighting for the same right to life, land and liberty.

Every culture has different ideals and their own ideas about how best to obtain them. They have differing perceptions of what freedom means. Throughout history we hear various voices crying out to be heard. The Daniel family, like other migrants to southern Africa, experienced these differences first-hand. From necessity, they merged their own culture and identities with that of others, not only for the sake of their survival, but also for the sake of peace and progress. Colonialists came from a different world and culture, and as such, imposed themselves and their ways on the lands they inhabited, in a way which was both foreign and unprecedented to the local people.

To this day, South Africa remains a cultural melting pot, as the immense diversity of peoples who call the land home continue to strive for common ground. In 1996, Former President of South Africa, Nelson Mandela, had the following to say in his speech to re-dedicate the Monument building and Memorial dedicated to the 1820 Settlers, after it was burnt down in 1994. It overlooks present day Makhanda (formerly Grahamstown):

"There are monuments which stand as mute pointers to a fixed and ever-receding past. Devoid of life, they have little meaning outside the history books and the minds of learned people. This National Monument is not of that kind … Pawns in a larger game, the 1820 Settlers came to the part of Africa at the behest of an imperial power seeking to use its own poor and unemployed in a bid to advance conquest and imperial ambitions.

Though their own impulse to freedom rendered them largely unsuitable for that task, they were nevertheless caught up on the wrong side of history, unable or unwilling to acknowledge as equals those into whose homeland they had been implanted. The founders of the monument two decades ago sought to redeem that limitation, without denying it, by dedicating the monument to the universal application of the ideals which the English Settlers cherished for themselves. Today, our country a democracy, and our people masters of their own destiny, we are re-dedicating the monument to the universality of those ideals at a time when we are working together to make them a reality for all." – Former President Nelson Mandela

What follows are the reminiscences of one such 1820 British Settler family – the Daniel family of Africa, who dared to venture into the lion’s den.

PROLOGUE

16 May, 1868 – Rouxville, British Colony, Southern Africa

Amelia was dead. The subtle fragrance of her French lavender oil lingered. The old man gently breathed in her scent one last time. Sampson O’Malia Daniel removed his spectacles, and used his wife’s embroidered white lace handkerchief to wipe his eyes. The once delicate colours were dull and the lace a grey-white. It had been his gift to her, bought at Burlington Arcade in London prior to sailing for South Africa, forty-eight years ago.

Every bone of the old man’s eighty-six-year-old frame ached under the weight of his loss. Physically drained, he wished he could accompany her into eternal sleep. Leaning over, he kissed Amelia gently on the forehead.

Leaving the doctor to prepare her for burial, Sampson left the tent. His skin tingled from the crisp Orange Free State air. He stepped outside, using his walking stick for support. A tall, silver-haired man, he removed his rabbit-fur hat and sat heavily onto a wooden chair. Placing the hat on his knee, he adjusted the cushion into the small of his back.

The loud crack of a whip startled him, as a span of sixteen oxen lumbered past, pulling a wagon loaded with sacks of maize.

The farm worker driving the oxen, greeted him respectfully, "Dumela, Ntate!"

Oblivious to Sampson’s recent loss, the friendly man urged the oxen onwards, slowly making his way to the market square. Sampson raised his right hand in silent reply.

Sampson sighed deeply. On their way from their home in Bloemfontein to attend the 1820 Settler Jubilee in Grahamstown, they had stopped to rest the oxen in the small village of Rouxville. It was there that Amelia had been taken ill. While their son-in-law, Thomas Webster, set up camp, their daughter, Eleanor, tried to make her mother as comfortable as possible. They sent a scout to Smithfield, some 25 miles away, but by the time the doctor arrived, it was too late.

Eleanor appeared with a pot of rooibos tea.

Here, Papa, drink your tea. It will make you feel better.

She put the tray on the table next to him and retreated, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

It was early evening in the dusty town of Rouxville. The sky was a blended hue of pastel pinks, oranges and blues. Amelia’s passion for the African sky had been contagious. She would often pause to point out the beauty of a sunset. Be the first one up each morning to greet the dawn. Sampson used to watch his French wife twirl with outstretched arms, spinning like a ballerina – in childlike celebration of life. Vivid memories of their sixty plus years together flashed through his mind.

"Amelia, my love… my soul mate …Tu me manques." She was missing from him, already.

The octogenarian smiled, remembering how reckless and in love they had been. They eloped from London to Gretna Green in Scotland when Amelia was sixteen and had been inseparable since then. They had been just as reckless when they decided to set off on this trip to Grahamstown. Their youngest son, Charles Augustus had thought so.

"Papa, it is madness for you and Maman to travel to Grahamstown at this time." His tone expressed his deep concern, but he knew how strong-willed both his parents could be.

I know Thomas and Eleanor are going with you, but mother is tired and unwell. You are uncertain if the trading posts en route will have room to accommodate you comfortably. If not, you will need to sleep nights in the wagon or in the tent.

Born in Uitenhage on 28 April 1833 and raised in Bloemfontein, their youngest son Charles could not comprehend how important the fifty-year commemoration of the 1820 Settler Jubilee was to his parents. Sampson and Amelia had used the proposed reunion as a reason for one final visit to some of their children and grandchildren still living in the Eastern Cape. Life had passed all too quickly. The difficulty of travelling long distances by wagon and times of political uncertainty, had prevented them from seeing some family for many years. They yearned to connect with old friends. The news of the Jubilee came at an opportune time. But, Sampson conceded, Charles’ concerns had proved to be right.

"Mon chéri, I’m sorry … I can’t go with you. Amelia’s last whisper had been barely audible as she clasped her husband’s hand tightly. I am tired. You are such a good man. Thank you for our interesting life." Outside the tent where his wife’s body lay, Sampson’s mind drifted to his children – all adults now with children of their own. Some had been born in Britain before their emigration to Africa. Their beautiful Isabella had been born at sea.

How had it all gone so quickly?

Acknowledgements

My deepest thanks and gratitude to all the special people who were kind, loving, supportive and enlightening during my years of research and writing this story, among them:

David Gemmell, Patricia Crain, Shirley (nee Daniel) Fowlie, The late Dan Daniel, William Jervois, Lee Parnell, Vic Parnell, Hugh L. H. de Souza, Brian Benningfield, Daphne Pullens, June Hynd, Mervyn Prior, Alec Daniel, Ron Daniel, Ivor Daniel, Peta Daniel, Kevin Daniel, the late Maureen (nee Daniel) Theron, Barbara Greyling, Jaap Mostert, Wilna and Joggie Ackerman, Jackie Lock, Sue Mackay; Susan Parker-Bowles; Hugh Roberts; Hetty Turvey, the late Keith Turvey, Phillip Marais, Judi Carnegie, Tracy Sinclair Naess, the late Ian Wood, Fraanie Pieterse, Lewis Pugh, Daphne Pillans, Paul Tanner-Tremaine.

A special thank you to the descendants of the Daniel clan who contributed through the Into the Lion’s Den Facebook page. Thank you for helping to keep the dream alive and for your patience and the long wait to read the story.

I

The Irish Jeweller

CHAPTER 1

1799 The Priory – Queensferry (Edinburgh, Scotland)

It was six-thirty in the morning. The grandfather clock ticked loudly in the entrance hall of the Priory. Soon, seven loud chimes would sound a wake-up call for the vicar of the rectory. Fifteen-year-old Sampson O’Malia Daniel heard heavy snores from the room across the hall.

Sampson looked through the sash windows of the parlour onto the street. There was no movement out there. It was the end of June, summer in Scotland. The early morning air was cool, but not cold enough to light a fire in the small fireplace in the carpeted room.

He would leave early for the harbour to meet Peter, his older brother, due to arrive on the eight-thirty ferry from Dublin. Here in Scotland, the Vicar had warned the young man that they could have four seasons in one day. Sampson, a tall lad with neatly groomed dark hair, went back up the wooden staircase, past the numerous small oil paintings lining the narrow passage and ducked to avoid hitting his head on the low doorframe to his bedroom. He collected his coat.

The boy quietly left the Priory, respectful of those still asleep in the household. Once outside, the gravel crunched beneath his feet. His late mother, Elizabeth Clarke Daniel, had frequently quipped at the size of his feet and the speed at which they grew. He was grateful that he had finally grown into them.

With only the birds for company, the slender youngster stepped into the quiet street. He turned right in the direction of the Inchcolm Abbey Ferry, situated on the expanse of water known as the Firth of Forth. He saw a curtain being drawn back from a window on the third floor of the home of the local fishmonger. The townsfolk were beginning to stir. As it was a Sunday, he guessed they would be getting ready to attend church.

On his left was the grand Plewlands House, with its many windows. He imagined the window taxes to be exorbitant with all those glass panes. Walking past the house reminded Sampson of a conversation with Mr Wilson two weeks previously, when he arrived in Queensferry. Mr Wilson, who lived in the house which had been built in 1641, wanted to know what the fresh-faced young Irish lad was doing in Queensferry.

After my mother died in Dublin and my father re-married, I moved in with my mentor and jewellery master, Mr O’Brian, and started my apprenticeship as a silversmith. It is a logical profession for me, as my father is also a jeweller. I often spent time at his workbench watching him. O’Brian told me he was moving to Edinburgh to pursue business opportunities in Scotland. He invited me to join him and finish my trade here.

Sampson adjusted his necktie and straightened his jacket.

Mr Wilson admired the young man’s self-assurance. The boy had travelled alone from Ireland to Scotland, and would be starting a new life in Edinburgh, away from his family. Yet, he had boldness. He showed promise.

And here I am, Sampson continued proudly. Father paid my ferry and board. I will be leaving for Edinburgh with my older brother in a few days to further my studies. Then I will be able to earn my own wage. Father says the economy in Ireland is bad and the conflict between the Catholics and Protestants has become unbearable.

His thoughts returned to the present and Sampson saw the glimmer of water on the Firth of Forth down the alleyway between the shops at the end of Harbour Lane. Just then it started to drizzle.

In no time at all Sampson was in the High Street and the Scottish Episcopal Church was down the road to the left. In a few hours, the brass bell would ring, summoning parishioners to worship.

A seagull’s call broke the silence of the morning. Sampson picked up his pace and headed down Bell Stane to Harbour Lane. The buildings on both sides of the narrow lane shielded him from the cool breeze. He soon reached the Harbour Master’s house. The youngster squinted at the glare of the early morning sun on the water. He was glad the drizzle had stopped. Perhaps he could convince Peter to take a walk around town later. He was sure Peter would agree, especially if there was a pint of ale to be had at the end of the walk and other people to engage in conversation. Peter was the social one, communicating with ease. Sampson was more serious and reserved.

Peter Clarke Daniel’s mission was to meet Sampson in Queensferry and accompany him to O’Brian, the Jewellery Master in Edinburgh, ten miles away. Then he planned to take a stagecoach to London to follow up further business prospects with some French Huguenots. Peter, a qualified jeweller, was eight years older than his sibling. At the age of twenty-four, he owned a successful jewellery store in Castle Street, Dublin.

Their father, John Daniel, had raised his sons to be hardworking and honest. He urged them to uphold the Daniel family motto: Neither Fear nor Despise.

The familiar voice, with its broad Irish accent, still rang in Sampson’s ears, Always work with honesty and conduct your affairs with integrity. Behave like gentlemen at all times and mind your manners.

As a result, Sampson found it difficult to comprehend how some people, including his brother Peter, lived. Although raised in the same authoritarian household, Peter was the risk taker – especially where women and business were concerned.

When he reached the pier, Sampson propped himself against the cast-iron railing surrounding it. His lanky frame, silhouetted against the early morning light, somehow made him seem taller than he was. As he looked out over the water, he thought of his childhood in Dublin. Theirs had been a good life, protected and privileged compared to other children. His parents knew the importance of a good education, so a governess had schooled them from an early age.

They regularly attended church in Kildare where their uncle was vicar. Sampson felt a twinge of sadness that all of that had changed after his mother’s death. Ireland was in political turmoil and it seemed to the boy that the entire world was upside down, what with the Napoleonic aggression against England.

The sight of the approaching ferry jolted Sampson out of his daydream. His heart skipped a beat in anticipation of seeing Peter. He missed Dublin and his family, especially his sister Julia. He felt sad that her husband, John Wright, had recently died whilst on a visit to America. The bond between brother and sister was strong. Julia was well read and knowledgeable. She gave him sound advice, and they could talk about anything. He yearned for their meaningful conversations.

Peter waved from the crowded deck, shouting, Sampson, lad!

Sampson heard his brother’s distinctive Irish voice as the ferryboat drifted towards the dock and he waved back. His excitement soon turned to impatience, as Peter was one of the last passengers to disembark.

A strange woman clung to Peter’s arm, hers intimately entwined with his. A mass of red curly locks, bright red lip balm and enormous white teeth were visible beneath her green bonnet. Sampson could not help but stare at her ample breasts, bulging from her bodice, as the pair approached him. She laughed raucously at one of Peter’s remarks.

Sampson sighed, inadvertently shaking his head.

Nothing’s changed, he thought.

The two brothers first shook hands and then Peter embraced his brother affectionately. Without introducing the woman to Sampson, Peter courteously tipped his top hat and bid her farewell, promising to visit her soon on his trip to New Town, in Edinburgh city.

Fetch my trunk, lad! he jovially instructed his brother. Show me to the Priory, I look forward to meeting the Vicar, he winked, Besides which, I am famished!

Recognising his father’s suitcase, Sampson collected it from the porter. The two men walked up the cobbled lane past Hillwood House and into Gote Lane, joining up with High Street. There was no mistaking them as brothers. Peter was six foot one, and Sampson was not much shorter. Both had piercing crystal-blue eyes and thick dark eyebrows. Their dark hair was in stark contrast to their fair complexions.

The summer sun warmed their backs as they headed to the Priory for breakfast. Peter chatted about life on the home front and his jewellery business. Some of the passengers from the ferry walked ahead down the street to the Staghead Hotel, to check in to their lodgings. Otherwise, all was quiet.

It was a Sunday after all.

During breakfast at the Priory, the conversation turned to politics and religion.

Ireland is in turmoil. There’s widespread famine and conflict between the churches, said Peter, noisily eating his oats porridge before moving on to his poached eggs.

He reported that the violent outbursts between groups and opposing families were becoming more frequent. The increase in the demand for Irish labour in England, with the constant talk of the coming industrial growth, had undoubtedly caused many Irish citizens to seek better living and working prospects, in Scotland and in England. Agricultural depression, as a result of the Napoleonic Wars, depleted farming opportunities, and Irish labourers were heading for London in their droves.

The vicar nodded in agreement and said it was indeed a sorry state of affairs. He confirmed that many Irish Protestants had taken refuge in England to escape the abusive Catholic rule. The brothers’ uncles were Protestant vicars at the parish of Swords, just outside Dublin. Their advice to the boys’ father was to send his sons to Scotland due to the iron hand of the current rulers.

I believe my father made a wise decision sending young Sampson here to complete his jewellery apprenticeship. Once he is qualified, we can go into business together, Peter said.

Sampson looked across the table and smiled back. He never questioned the judgment of either his father or his big brother. He had vowed to himself to excel in his chosen profession. He would make them proud.

Later, Sampson persuaded Peter to take a walk around the village. It was a fine afternoon and they strolled along the High Street. Peter chatted to Sampson about living in Edinburgh. He lectured him about being diligent with his studies and making the most of opportunities.

Count your blessings, lad. Not everyone has the chance to start working life in another country. You are lucky to study the trade under a master jeweller.

They walked along the twisted, cobbled High Street, and caught glimpses of the seashore between the rows of terraced houses. High-pitched tiled roofs with attic windows spewed smoke from multiple chimney pots.

You need to learn to turn a penny for yourself, lad, lectured Peter. Also remember not everyone is trustworthy. Be discerning with whom you make friends – although remember not every stranger is a scoundrel. Some strangers can become close friends.

Sampson soaked up the moments spent with his sibling. He knew Peter would soon be heading back to Ireland. They reached Hawes Inn at the east end of town. Peter placed his arm around Sampson’s shoulder and pulled him close.

Come on my lad, let’s go in for a pint, he grinned, showing a set of slightly uneven, but healthy, white teeth.

Or two… thought Sampson, raising an eyebrow.

The following morning, the two brothers caught the stagecoach bound for Edinburgh. Peter spent a few days there with Sampson, settling him into Thomas Gladstone’s boarding establishment, before heading off to London to meet with a prospective business partner.

Sampson spent the next two years completing his trade in Edinburgh. During this time, he lived at Gladstone’s boarding house. The old stone building, built in 1617, had four floors of accommodation and a popular haberdashery on the ground floor. The young man immersed himself in this new world, assisting at the jewellery shop in the High Street during the day. At night, the sounds and smells of the city wafted in through his open window, although his busy work life left little opportunity to appreciate the sights of Edinburgh.

One Saturday, Sampson ventured downtown through Cowgate and into Grass Market. The forbidding Edinburgh Castle rose up on the hilltop above the city. Noisy traders filled the square, selling sheep, cattle, horses and animal fodder. The distinctive strains of bagpipes drifted through the crowded marketplace. He stopped in at the popular White Hart Inn for a pint of ale.

On days like these, he missed his brother. While he waited for a meal, Sampson read a letter from Julia. She said that Peter was home in Dublin, but had plans to relocate to London to open a new jewellery shop in partnership with some French businessmen.

It had come as no surprise to him when he heard that Peter’s fifteen-year-old girlfriend, Eliza Jackson, was pregnant. On their father’s insistence, Peter had married Eliza at St Werburgh Parish in Dublin. Their son, Peter Clarke Daniel junior, had been born on 6 April