Our Little Boer Cousin
THE
Little Cousin Series
(TRADE MARK)
Each volume illustrated with six or more full page plates in
tint. Cloth, 12mo, with decorative cover
per volume, 60 cents
LIST OF TITLES
BY MARY HAZELTON WADE, MARY F.
NIXON-ROULET, BLANCHE MCMANUS,
CLARA V. WINLOW, FLORENCE E.
MENDEL AND OTHERS
=Our Little African Cousin=
=Our Little Alaskan Cousin=
=Our Little Arabian Cousin=
=Our Little Argentine Cousin=
=Our Little Armenian Cousin=
=Our Little Australian Cousin=
=Our Little Austrian Cousin=
=Our Little Belgian Cousin=
=Our Little Bohemian Cousin=
=Our Little Boer Cousin=
=Our Little Brazilian Cousin=
=Our Little Bulgarian Cousin=
=Our Little Canadian Cousin=
=Our Little Chinese Cousin=
=Our Little Cuban Cousin=
=Our Little Danish Cousin=
=Our Little Dutch Cousin=
=Our Little Egyptian Cousin=
=Our Little English Cousin=
=Our Little Eskimo Cousin=
=Our Little French Cousin=
=Our Little German Cousin=
=Our Little Grecian Cousin=
=Our Little Hawaiian Cousin=
=Our Little Hindu Cousin=
=Our Little Hungarian Cousin=
=Our Little Indian Cousin=
=Our Little Irish Cousin=
=Our Little Italian Cousin=
=Our Little Japanese Cousin=
=Our Little Jewish Cousin=
=Our Little Korean Cousin=
=Our Little Malayan (Brown) Cousin=
=Our Little Mexican Cousin=
=Our Little Norwegian Cousin=
=Our Little Panama Cousin=
=Our Little Persian Cousin=
=Our Little Philippine Cousin=
=Our Little Polish Cousin=
=Our Little Porto Rican Cousin=
=Our Little Portuguese Cousin=
=Our Little Russian Cousin=
=Our Little Scotch Cousin=
=Our Little Servian Cousin=
=Our Little Siamese Cousin=
=Our Little Spanish Cousin=
=Our Little Swedish Cousin=
=Our Little Swiss Cousin=
=Our Little Turkish Cousin=
THE PAGE COMPANY
53 Beacon Street, Boston, Mass.
[Illustration: "PETRUS BUSIED HIMSELF STEEPING BULLOCK'S HIDE IN
WATER." (_See page 19_)]
Our Little Boer Cousin
By
Luna May Innes
Author of "Our Little Danish Cousin," etc.
_Illustrated by_
John Goss
[Illustration]
Boston
The Page Company
MDCCCCXV
_Copyright, 1915, by_
THE PAGE COMPANY
_All rights reserved_
First Impression, September, 1915
TO
William Wallace Phelps, Jr.
MY BOOK-LOVING YOUNG FRIEND,
THIS LITTLE STORY OF THE BOERS IS
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
PREFACE
Far away in the African antipodes--at the extreme opposite side of the
world from us--lies South Africa. Vast as is this British possession,
it forms but the southernmost point or tip of the great dark continent.
In its very heart lies the Transvaal--the home of our little Boer
cousins.
The great "thirst-veldt" of the Kalahari Desert lies to the north-west
of their land, which is about the size of England, and with a very
similar climate, and to the south, beyond the Drakensberg Mountains,
lies Natal, Kaffraria and Zululand.
The story of the Transvaal is the story of the Boers--a stalwart,
patriotic and deeply religious race, whose history began one April day
in 1652, about the time when Cromwell was at the height of his power,
when four Dutch ships, under the daring Jan Van Riebek, entered the bay
of Table Mountain and made their first landing at the Cape of Good Hope.
We have all read of the splendid valor of the Boers. Their history is
as full of romance as it is of pathos and struggle. Such names as "Oom
Paul" Kruger--four times president--General Botha, and General Joubert,
come to us at once when we think of the Transvaal.
But there are other great names associated with this land; such
remarkable ones as those of Livingstone the "Pathfinder," and
"Messenger of God," as he was called; and of Cecil Rhodes, the "Empire
Builder," whose dream it was to build the great north road--now nearing
completion--which will stretch like a ribbon across the whole African
continent from the Cape to the Mediterranean.
Perhaps, in this little story, you may gain a glimpse of the
surroundings, the wholesome out-of-door farm-life, work and play of
our little Boer cousins--boys and girls of the antipodes, and of the
bright future which awaits the Transvaal.
THE AUTHOR.
Chicago, June, 1915.
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
PREFACE vii
I. PETRUS JOUBERT 1
II. AT "WELTEFREDEN" 17
III. A TRANSVAAL "MODEL FARM" 34
IV. THE GREAT "TREK" 51
V. A BOER "NACHTMAAL" 71
VI. OVER THE "GREAT KARROO" TO CAPE TOWN 81
VII. A KAFIR PARTY AT THE CHIEF'S KRAAL 94
VIII. A STORM ON THE DRAKENSBERG 107
IX. A ZULU WAR-DANCE 120
X. PETRUS THE HERO 135
List of Illustrations
PAGE
"PETRUS BUSIED HIMSELF STEEPING BULLOCK'S HIDE
IN WATER." (_See page 19_) _Frontispiece_
"THE LIEUTENANT AGAIN TOOK CAREFUL AIM AND FIRED" 13
"IT WAS A LONG, LOW, ONE-STORY COTTAGE, HALF-HIDDEN
BY THE ROADSIDE TREES" 79
"THE SEARCHING PARTY . . . CARRIED GREAT TORCHES" 109
"PILING GREAT BEAMS OF WOOD IN ORDERLY ROWS ON THE WHARF" 122
"THE WHOLE YELLING MASS MADE ANOTHER WILD CHARGE" 131
Our Little Boer Cousin
CHAPTER I
PETRUS JOUBERT
It was spring in the Transvaal. Already the wattle-trees beside the
farm-schoolhouse door were thickly covered with a mass of golden
bloom, and the little blue pan--or lake--down among the willows, again
reflected the sky and clouds as the Boer children trooped past it.
Many a chilly morning had they trudged on their way to that same
little room of corrugated iron and wood, just beyond the farthest
kopje[1]--often so early that the grass was still sparkling with the
sunlit hoar-frost.
The sun shone warm now, and groups of laughing little Boer girls, in
large pinafores and kappies, hurried across the trackless grassy
veldt[2] from every direction. Some of them, like Christina Allida,
Adriana, Franzina, and black-eyed, laughing little Yettie, whose farms
were a long way off, drove over in their crowded Cape cart spiders and
ramshackle conveyances of every description.
Soon Franzina's cart, with Yettie, came rumbling up to the door, where
all the older boys--like their big cousin, Petrus Joubert--who had
galloped over on their shaggy little Cape ponies, were off-saddling
and knee-haltering them under the wattle-trees. To remove the saddle,
and then, with the head-stall, to fasten the pony's head to his leg
just above his knee, so that he might graze freely about, yet be caught
again when wanted after school was out, took but a moment. Then the
saddles were hung on the schoolhouse wall in a lengthening row, and
lessons begun.
All Boer boys are trained to ride from the time they can walk. Petrus
could even "out-spann"[3] a team of his uncle's oxen. He was fond of
all animals--especially of his sturdy little Basuto pony, which he
had christened "Ferus." Ferus meant "fearless." He prized him above
everything he possessed. He was trained to obey the slightest turn of
the reins, or to come to a full stop at the sound of one low whistle
from his master. Through storm or sunshine he carried his young rider
swiftly to school and home again--always with little five-year-old
brother Theunis holding tightly on behind.
"Jump, Theunis!" affectionately called Petrus to the child. Theunis,
his only brother, was very dear to him.
Still clutching a dog-eared copy of "Steb-by-Steb"[4] in one small
hand, Theunis slid off and hurried after his big brother into the
little room.
Soon it was crowded with noisy children, all busily buzzing over their
English lessons, and answering "Ek-weit-nie"[5] to the teacher's
questions. It was a government farm-school. Only one hour a day was
allowed for Dutch.
Petrus would be ready for the High School at Johannesburg in the
fall. He was one of the brightest boys in the school. Not only did he
head his classes, but he had read the Bible and "Steps of Youth"--two
books all Boer boys study--well--twice through. Also, he was perfectly
familiar with the "Stories from Homer" and the "History of the United
States of America." This last book, like his Bible, he never could read
enough. Its story of the struggle for liberty, by a brave people like
his own, against the same hostile power his ancestors for generations
had had to combat, fascinated him.
In the Transvaal's mild, sub-tropical climate, with its wonderful
health-giving air, the Boer youth develops early into self-reliant
manhood. At thirteen Petrus was nearly as tall as his Uncle Abraham,
and was more than the physical equal of his English or American cousins
of sixteen or seventeen. Living a healthy outdoor farm-life, he had
become a great broad-shouldered lad of strong stalwart build, with the
resolute forward tread of his "voor-trekking" ancestors.
One could see that Petrus was a true "Hollander-Boer"--from his
corduroy trousers and the large home-made "veldt-schoens" on his feet,
to the broad-brimmed hat that shaded his fair hair and blue eyes from
the African sun. Yet there was a certain French-Huguenot cast to
his features. It came from the Jouberts on his father's side of the
family. Some of the brightest pages of the Transvaal's history had
been written by a brave soldier uncle of his--Petrus Joubert[6]--whose
great-great-grandfather had fled from France to South Africa with
hundreds of his persecuted countrymen for freedom to read his Bible
and to worship among the Dutch Boers of the Transvaal. He became one
of them, fought in their wars, was made their president, and later
they appointed him commandant-general of all the Boer forces when
hostilities began against England. Petrus was his namesake. Of this he
was very proud. His family called him "Koos" for short.
From his school desk near the window, Petrus kept a wolf-like eye on
his pony as he grazed about. Sometimes Ferus wandered entirely out of
sight. This always distressed Petrus greatly.
As he gazed across the high veldt for miles about, Petrus could almost
see the outskirts of his uncle's vast farm of six thousand acres.
First, beyond a few scattered red-brown kopjes, there was the blue
pan--then, just beyond--through a small plantation of Scotch firs
and poplars--he could see the plain little Dutch Reformed Church,
which his uncle had re-roofed after the war. Still farther beyond was
Johannesburg, the "Golden City," where he had been promised he might
attend High School next winter. The thought thrilled him. How good
his uncle had always been to him, he thought. There on the farm, with
his uncle and Aunt Johanna, his grandfather and great-grandfather,
he had lived ever since he could remember. His own dear father had
been killed in the war. His mother had scarcely survived the hardships
of the terrible time when their house and everything they owned had
been burned to the ground by British soldiers. Then his kind Uncle
Abraham--his mother's brother, who was an Elder in the Church--had
welcomed them to his great place, "Weltefreden," the only home Petrus
had ever known.
There was a loud ringing of the school bell. It was the noon hour.
Out the children rushed helter-skelter--the girls to their games of
"Frott" or "touch-wood," Petrus and the boys to their cricket and Rugby
football.
"Oh, there's Uncle Abraham coming now!" exclaimed Petrus, with a start,
as he saw a familiar pair of shaggy brown horses and a green cart
rattling up to the schoolhouse door. Petrus ran to meet him.
"I come to say I must take Petrus to the farm to-day. The locusts are
on my corn-fields, and my head Kafir is gone," explained Mr. Joubert
to the teacher.
"But, Mr. Joubert, his inspection is coming off so soon," protested the
teacher.
"I think one day will make no difference," persisted the uncle. "Petrus
must come."
Further protest was useless. Petrus was allowed to climb quickly into
his uncle's cart. Theunis would ride Ferus home.
The horses dashed through the deep grass of the high veldt, taking the
shortest route home. Petrus could already see a blackening cloud in the
distance overcasting the sky.
"Nothing will be left of my crops!--nothing!" excitedly exclaimed his
uncle. "There is no time to be lost! Terrible swarms cover everything!
My Kafirs are doing what they can, and your Aunt Johanna and some of
the neighbors are holding a prayer-service for relief from the pests.
We must be quick and add our prayers to theirs, else all will be lost!"
"Yes, yes, Uncle!" agreed Petrus quickly, thinking of his well-worn
Testament. "It is terrible! But God will surely send us relief from
this pestilence."
There was a muddy drift to be crossed. The wheels sank deep. Emerging
safely on the opposite side, the team plunged directly ahead. Suddenly
their way was obscured before them. The enormous flight had completely
darkened the mid-day sun. Above their heads floated myriads of the
insects in a great blackening mass. As Uncle Abraham tried to force the
team through it, they filled the cart, beating against its sides and
against their faces with a loud humming sound. Locusts are the great
scourge of South Africa.
In the sudden gloom a herd of Lieutenant Wortley's fine cattle,
crossing their path, was scarcely visible. Nor did they hear the
lieutenant himself, and his little son George, calling to them.
"Oh, Uncle Abraham, here comes Lieutenant Wortley and George. They are
waving to us to stop for them. Can't we, Uncle?"
Uncle Abraham hastily stopped the cart and welcomed his English
friends. They were his nearest neighbors. Whatever hostile feelings
he might once have had towards the British had long been forgotten.
Thirteen years had passed since the war.
"Good day, Lieutenant Wortley. Here is plenty of room in the cart.
Petrus, make room for George there with you. We are making all speed,
Lieutenant, to save my crops from the locusts. We are going to have
a big 'grass-burning' to-night, and smoke out whatever remain of the
pests."
"Oh, Lieutenant Wortley, please let George stay with us for the
burning! We always have such fine good times at a big grass-burning!"
vehemently pleaded Petrus. "And I'll promise to ride home with him on
Ferus, afterwards, and we'll--oh, what is that?"
[Illustration: "THE LIEUTENANT AGAIN TOOK CAREFUL AIM AND FIRED"]
_Z-z-zip! Wh-i-zz!_ A great shower of gleaming Zulu assegais flew
through the air over the cart.
_Z-z-zip!_ came another past George's head. They hit the car with a
metallic sound, glanced off and fell to earth.
"_The Zulus! the Zulus!_" cried the Englishman, seizing George close in
his arms. "They have threatened our lives! The cowards! They are taking
advantage of the dark. Quick, George, get down out of sight in the
bottom of the cart! I'll fire at the villains!"
Bang! Boom! Bang! sounded the lieutenant's rifle.
The Zulus yelled, and quickly sent another shower of assegais. Petrus
lowered his head. One landed heavily in the flying cart close to his
feet. It was six feet long--its sharp iron head or blade being over
a foot long in itself. An ox-tail ornamented the opposite end of
the great spear. Already the darkening flight of locusts had passed
on, leaving the sky bright and clear. Petrus gave one quick backward
glance. One Zulu had fallen. The others were in hot pursuit.
Uncle Abraham lashed the horses into a wild gallop. The lieutenant
again took careful aim and fired. The Zulus went tumbling back into the
tall grass.
"They're afraid of our fire-arms! Hurrah!" cried Petrus in joy.
"Hurrah! George, you're safe! They are gone!"
"Yes, thank heavens! We've escaped their poisoned assegais so far--the
savages! I know that giant Zulu who was in the lead. I know him well.
He is Dirk," continued the lieutenant. "He looked me straight in the
eye, as he passed close and drew his assegai. No, Petrus, I'll take
George home to-night. He's safer there. George thanks you just the
same, but he has had a terrible fright. I don't mean to let my boy out
of my sight."
The lieutenant lifted George--white and trembling--into his arms.
"Why, Lieutenant Wortley, should the Zulus threaten your lives?"
demanded Mr. Joubert, as mystified as was Petrus.
"Yes, tell us," added Petrus--in suspense to hear.
"As you may know," began the Englishman, glad to make explanations, "my
appointment as collector of His Majesty's 'Hunt-tax' followed the peace
negotiations upon the close of the war. My first commission was to the
Kalahari Desert--that great 'Thirst-land'--as it is called, covering
thousands of miles of the most desolate, sandy, waterless, tract of
land under the heavens. There--in that fearful spot--men, horses, and
oxen are constantly dying of thirst--their skeletons by thousands
strew the great hot sand stretches. George's mother had returned with
him to our old home in England. After her death there, George's Aunt
Edith brought the boy as far as Cape Town to me. I protested, but
George--hungering for adventure--begged to be taken along with me.
Finally, I consented.
"It was my official duty to collect the 'Hunt-tax.' I found that many
of the savages of this God-forsaken region had never before paid a
'tax' of any kind. They rebelled. Among such was this giant Zulu--Dirk.
He promptly refused to pay, although his horses were overloaded with
the finest skins, ivory, and the longest koodoo horns I have ever seen.
"It was the climax of impudence when he disputed my authority and tried
to argue with me. I had him promptly disarmed and jailed by two of my
native police, afterwards ordering him put at convict work. He was
set at well-digging, under guard, in the desert. It was a rough job,
but my police accomplished it. Then it was that Dirk flung out that
threat against our lives. There was something in his look and voice
that made my blood run cold. To this day the mere sight of him makes me
apprehensive. The threat was aimed at George as much as at me. George
is always begging me to take him home to England. I may decide to do
it."
"Oh, George dear! Don't you leave us! Never shall that Zulu harm you! I
am a good marksman. I would shoot him before he should harm you! Never
fear, George, I will be your protector always," vehemently cried the
Boer boy.
Uncle Abraham shook his head gravely. They had reached the great farm.
Bidding their friends adieu, Uncle Abraham and Petrus turned their
attention to the locusts. They had settled themselves over the whole
two miles of Uncle Abraham's tender, young mealie-fields in layers ten
to twelve inches deep, and were busily mowing down the juicy stalks
acre by acre.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] A flat-topped little hill.
[2] The open grassy plains.
[3] Unhitch.
[4] "Step-by-Step."
[5] "I don't know."
[6] General Petrus Joubert went with Paul Kruger to England in 1878 to
protest against the annexation of the Transvaal, and in 1880 joined
with Kruger and Pretorius in proclaiming its independence. In the war
that followed he commanded the army and won the famous victories of
Laing's Neck and Majuba Hill. He was elected Vice-President in 1883,
contested the presidency in 1888 and in 1899 took command of the army
in Natal, defeating the British in several engagements and holding
General White besieged for months at Ladysmith, despite General
Buller's efforts at relief. He died at Pretoria, March, 1900.