Rietvlei, the "Valley of Reeds"--The O'Neil homestead--Pioneer
hardships--The war against Maleuw, "The Lion"--"Slim Gert" O'Neil
breaks the power of the Makateese king--Jafta, King of the Mapors--My
boyhood and "Jass"--Sibijaan, "The Skunk," becomes my pal--My first
trousers nearly cost me an eye--Our toy factory and mimic battles--Oom
Tuys Grobler tells of Swaziland and King Buno, "The Terrible."
Rietvlei is one of the most beautiful accidents of nature I have ever
seen. To properly appreciate this wonderful Valley of Reeds, it should
be approached across the high veldt. To reach it in this way is to
receive a thrill that is seldom felt when viewing any scene. It is set
like a jewel in the wilderness of the veldt and seems more like a
sunken oasis than anything else. Time and time again I have been
almost startled when I suddenly saw Rietvlei.
As you ride across the high veldt you are struck by its utter
barrenness and the thousands of ant-hills on all sides. The wild
grasses, browned by the sun, are higher than your horse's belly and
far in the distance are the barren hills. The veldt, with its altitude
of about seven thousand feet, is much like the plains of Arizona, New
Mexico, and Texas. It is almost desert. Hundreds of times I have
crossed this veldt on my hairy Boer pony and always the same thing has
happened. Several times, sometimes scores of times, springbok,
blesbok, or duiker, the antelopes of the veldt, have jumped to their
feet and scampered off through the tall grass. My pony would give one
leap and then dash madly after them. If I was day-dreaming, I was
likely to find myself unhorsed and facing a chase after my active
steed. However, one gets used to such interruptions and it was seldom
that I did not enjoy the chase. It is no use to think that a Boer pony
can be prevented from pursuing these antelope; he is trained to do it
from the first time he feels a saddle, and his quickness often makes
it possible for the shot that provides fresh meat that night in camp.
After miles and miles of veldt, with the distant hills seeming to
recede as one goes on, the fascination of space loses its grip and the
fatigue of monotony follows. About the time I would begin to feel like
a sailor adrift in mid-ocean the blessed relief would come--I would
reach Rietvlei!
My pony would come to a sudden stop on the rim of a great precipice
and thousands of feet below I would see the Valley of Reeds with the
settlement that meant home. The high veldt breaks off abruptly, as
though cut with a giant knife, exactly like parts of the Grand Canyon
of the Colorado in America. Since the beginning of time the little
rivers of Rietvlei have worn down the veldt until they have hollowed
out thousands and thousands of acres. From the cool high veldt to the
fertile green Valley of Reeds is a wonderful change, and it takes a
full hour to climb down the winding trail.
My grandfather, John James O'Neil, was the first white man to see
Rietvlei and he immediately decided that he need look no further for
his home. He at once settled there and went through many hardships to
found his home. The natives inhabiting the valley were the Mapors,
then a powerful and hostile tribe. My father built our present home,
which is of white limestone, iron, and wood, all of which had to be
brought some six hundred miles by ox-teams. It was many years before
the house was completed, but my father intended it as the permanent
home of the O'Neils and it will stand for centuries.
The hardships endured by my grandfather and father were such as would
have daunted less stern men, but they were Boers and all Africa knows
them to be the greatest pioneers the world has ever seen. Jafta, king
of the Mapors, whose royal kraal was about forty-eight miles from my
home, was my family's greatest enemy. Both my grandfather and father
were constantly at war with him and were forced to maintain a large
force of fighting men to repel his attacks. There was always the
threat that Jafta would overwhelm the little band of doughty Boers in
the valley, and the white men practically lived with their guns in
their hands.
Those were anxious days for the womenfolk. All supplies had to be
brought in from the coast, and the wagons were months on the way.
Sometimes they would be gone for nearly a year and during all this
time the women never knew but that some hostile native tribe had
overwhelmed the devoted burghers and killed all their men. Dogged,
dauntless, and determined, the men won through time after time, until
there broke out the great war fomented by Maleuw, king of the
Makateese. He was known as "The Lion" and was a very able savage,
brave, cunning, and a born leader of men.
Maleuw became obsessed with the idea that the white men should be
driven out, and with this object provoked a war with Jafta, king of
the Mapors. It seems that Jafta, although he had been carrying on his
private feud against the white men, did not care to join Maleuw and
refused to aid him. The Makateese were the most warlike nation at that
time, probably owing to the inspiration of "The Lion," and they swept
down on the Mapors with the expressed intention of exterminating them.
The war was most sanguinary. No prisoners were taken, and it soon
began to look as though the Mapors would be wiped out. The white men
made no effort toward peace, taking the view that the more of their
enemies were killed the safer life would be for them. Soon Jafta and
his troops were in full flight, and then the white men found
themselves facing another and more real danger. With Maleuw victorious
he could rally additional armies, and this meant he would be powerful
enough to drive the white men out and probably kill most of them.
Under my father, Slim Gert O'Neil, a council of war was called at
Rietvlei and the leading Boers and some of the British settlers
attended. Chiefs of the Basuto and Swazi nations were sent for, and it
was decided to save the remnants of the Mapor nation and in so doing
break the power of "The Lion" and his Makateese armies. Umbandine was
king of Swaziland at that time.
King Maleuw found himself attacked by a large army made up of Boers,
British, Basutos, Mapors, and Swazis, and there were several fierce
battles. In some manner the Makateese had obtained a number of rifles
and there was much loss of life on both sides. This war ended with the
utter crushing of Maleuw and his army, and since then the Makateese
have never threatened the peace of the Transvaal. The final battle was
the storming of Maleuw's kraal, which was a veritable fortress on the
top of a steep hill about five hundred feet high.
The hill is now known as "Maleuwkop," in memory of the old "Lion." It
was practically impregnable to a native army using only savage
weapons. The "palace" proper was on the top of the hill and was
entirely surrounded by walls of thorn trees and prickly-pear cactus.
These thorn trees are most formidable, the thorns being about three
inches long and sharp as needles. The Boers call them "haakensteek,"
which is translated into "catch-and-stick." The British call them
"wait-a-bit" thorns, and under either name they are equally dangerous.
Outside the thorn wall there was a row of huts in which the picked
warriors of Maleuw lived. Below the huts came another thorn wall and
another row of huts. There were eight or ten such settlements, each
guarded by its own wall. I have heard many tales of the battle, which
lasted all day. Finally the white men broke through the various thorn
walls, and that was the end of the Makateese peril. My father in
telling of the fight has often said, "If we had had one
field-gun--only a little one--we could have blown 'The Lion' out of
his lair and saved many lives."
Shortly after this war I was born at Rietvlei. I was the youngest of
ten sons and spent my entire childhood without white playmates, except
for my sister, Ellen, always my favorite. One of my earliest
recollections is of seeing King Jafta when he paid ceremonial visits
to my father. Under the conditions upon which the Boers agreed to help
him against the Makateese, Jafta had ceded certain rich territories to
Oom Paul Kruger. This land President Kruger sold to my father, who
made an agreement with Jafta whereby the savage but now
king-in-reduced-circumstances was allowed to remain in possession for
a certain length of time. It was in connection with this agreement
that Jafta would visit Rietvlei at certain intervals.
I was only a little child then, but I can remember the fallen king
well. Owing to his lack of power he could not make much of a showing,
but it was necessary that he maintain his kingly dignity on these
visits. He would be accompanied by the last of his officers and a
small impi, or regiment, and my father would treat with him exactly as
though he were the powerful chief of former times. Jafta remembered
this later and repaid us by giving us valuable assistance during the
Boer War, at the time when the British were overrunning our lands.
The ceremonies attending Jafta's visits were always about the same.
His courier would come ahead to announce his arrival, and my father
would send word that he was pleased to see him and that his party
should approach. Then Jafta, entirely naked except for an old silk hat
my father had given him, would stride into the garden and when my
father came out of the house would make an oration. My father would
listen most respectfully and then would reply, always addressing the
deposed king as "Nkoos," which has the same meaning to our kaffirs as
"Your Majesty the King" has to the average Britisher.
The silk hat was very important in Jafta's eyes. It meant much more
than a mere personal adornment. My father always wears silk hats, even
when traveling about the farm, and Jafta attached much significance to
the one he wore and always guarded it most carefully. In fact, one of
the greatest honors he could confer on any of his officers was to make
one of them official guardian of the hat when he was not wearing it.
This was the savage conception of the coveted post of "Keeper of the
Crown Jewels" that is found in some present-day monarchies.
However, Jafta finally came on more evil days. Owing to certain
outside influences which were brought to bear upon him and to which he
acceded, it became necessary to take severe measures, and he and his
small band of followers were removed from the territory my father had
loaned them. This was rather sad, because this land had been the site
of the royal kraal of the Mapors since time immemorial.
Nevertheless, we have continued to employ Mapors on the farm and have
a number of families there now. My old nurse was a Mapor woman. She
was faithfulness personified, and I led her a merry dance. Her only
garment was a loin cloth made of a duiker skin, and on account of her
scant clothing my older brothers nick-named her "Jass," which means
"overcoat." Jass was the mother of several little Mapors, the scars on
her forehead showing their number. Like all the other savages in the
Transvaal, the Mapors practice scarification to a great extent. The
women are scarred either on the forehead or breasts, while the men are
entitled to a scar on the forehead for each enemy they have killed.
Until I was sent to boarding-school in Grahamstown, that is, until I
was well into my teens, my only companions were little kaffir boys. My
best pal was Sibijaan, whose name means "The Skunk," and even today he
is my body servant when I am at home. How we came to possess him is
illustrative of conditions in the district surrounding Rietvlei.
Sibijaan and two other little kaffirs were brought to our home early
one morning by a neighbor of ours who had captured them on our
property. It seems they belonged to some tribe that had recently been
wiped out by the Zulus and had been fleeing north to get away from the
death that caught their people. I have never seen so miserable a trio
as these poor little natives. They were almost starved and were
unutterably dirty. In addition, they were in a state of most pitiable
terror. They regarded the white men with bulging eyes and seemed only
to want a place to hide.
Since they had been captured on our farm, they belonged to us. My
mother was at home at the time, and the neighbor and she had a pretty
argument as to the disposal of the captives. I listened to all of it,
keeping one eye on the little boys and wondering how I would feel if I
were in their place.
Finally my mother agreed that the neighbor should have the largest of
the three, since he was big enough to be of some use in herding cattle
and sheep. The two little fellows were to belong to us, and subsequent
events proved that we had much the best of the bargain. The one taken
by our neighbor soon escaped, while our captives quickly became
devoted to us and are with us yet. The elder of the two was Sibijaan,
and my mother gave him to me for my own servant and playmate. Several
of my brothers happened to be spending a few days at the farm at this
time and they gave Sibijaan his name. Dick did the naming when he
said, "The little nigger would make a skunk blush with envy. Let's
call him The Skunk!"
Sibijaan and I soon had definite tasks assigned to us. On a Boer farm
no one rests--all have their work, even to the women and children. We
were sent out to mind the sheep, of which my father had thousands, and
were given about a dozen other little kaffirs as assistants. I was
about seven years old at this time, big and strong for my age.
During those years there was a great lack of traders in our section of
the Transvaal. This was due to the continuous wars in which the native
tribes fought one another and now and then raided a Boer farm. Traders
had been killed and their goods stolen, and none ever stopped at the
Valley of Reeds. This meant that my father had to outfit expeditions
and make the long journey to the coast and back again, if we were to
have any of the civilized necessities or luxuries.
Our neighbors would join in these expeditions, and often there would
be a score of ox-wagons and several score Boers in the parties. I
remember these expeditions well for many reasons--my mother used to
spend anxious months during my father's absence and about this time
there was an expedition which brought me my first pair of trousers.
These, in turn, were the cause of my receiving an injury to one of my
eyes from which I never fully recovered. My father had been away for
seven months this time and we had begun to fear that hostile natives
had attacked the caravan and done him some harm. Many and many such an
outfit had been wiped out by the Zulus, Makateese, or other hostile
tribes, and there never was any assurance that the few rifles of the
Boers could stop the rush of the savage impis.
On this occasion Sibijaan and I were minding a small herd of sheep on
the little plateau that overlooks the heart of Rietvlei. We were quite
busy trying to drive the flock to a better feeding-ground when
Sibijaan suddenly stopped and listened.
"Strangers coming!" he shouted. "I smell oxen and wagons. White men
coming up the Rietvlei!"
We looked in the direction he indicated and saw a cloud of dust
creeping along the rough road. A second later a man in a silk hat,
riding a familiar horse, emerged from the dust. Even at that distance
I could see the rifle across his saddle. It was Slim Gert O'Neil, my
father.
Sibijaan and I, followed by all the other little kaffirs, raced to the
wagons, where my father swung me on his horse and greeted me most
affectionately. A few moments later occurred the first really great
event of my life--I received my first trousers! My father took me back
to one of the wagons and presented me with a stout pair of corduroys.
I was overjoyed and danced up and down, Sibijaan and the other little
savages joining me, as though at a celebration. Now, I felt, at last I
am a real white man, and the distance between my black playmates and
myself seemed to become immense.
A little later I had slipped into the trousers and was proudly
marching at the head of my little impi. We saw the wagons into the
home kraal and then went back to our sheep. I was the hero of the hour
among my playmates, and this led to the injury that has affected my
eye ever since.
Sibijaan, who had always shared with me the leadership of our impi,
lost caste when I donned the trousers and instinctively became the
kaffir. This hurt him, and late in the afternoon he made me the
following proposition:
"Klein Baas (meaning 'Little Boss')," he said, in his pathetic
earnestness forgetting to address me by my native name, "Mzaan
Bakoor," "you have been wearing the trousers all day. Don't you think
it is my turn to wear them? We are both indunas (leaders) of our impi;
it is not right that one should be better than the other. Let me wear
the trousers until sundown and show our men that we are
brothers-in-arms!"
This seemed reasonable to me. Sibijaan and I had shared our joys and
woes for several years and there was no reason for my refusing him the
honor of wearing the wonderful corduroys. We changed. I put on his
beads and he got into my corduroys. Then came a perfect exhibition of
the kaffir temperament. Sibijaan became insufferably arrogant. He gave
orders to our impi, and for a moment I thought he was going to try and
command me. The more he lorded it over the others, the more sullen and
angered they became.
Of course the inevitable happened. Several of the little lads demanded
that they be allowed their turn at wearing the trousers, the badge of
authority, as it were. Sibijaan refused.
"No, no, you cannot wear them!" he shouted. "Now I am a man; I am
almost white! I am a man and you are little boys! Who am I that I
should take notice of such dirt?"
But he did. This last insult was too much. The indignant lads attacked
Sibijaan, and in a second there was a squirming mass of black legs,
arms, and bodies, with my precious trousers in danger of destruction.
We all had assegais, or short stabbing spears, and regardless of these
I dashed into the melee. Death or wounds were little things compared
to the loss of those trousers.
When the fight was over I had been stabbed in the eye, but I had the
trousers! Practically every boy had at least one wound, and one of the
little fellows died before we got him back to the house where he could
have attention. Owing to lack of proper medical care my eye was
allowed to get well without expert attention and will always show the
effects of this trouser-fight. From then on, however, I wore the
trousers.
I shall always remember my father's comment on this happening. He
asked me how the row had started and who had stabbed the boy to death.
It was practically impossible to determine the latter, and I explained
why. He listened in his quiet way and then gave me a talking to.
"Yours is the guilt for the death of that boy," he said. "You forgot
you were a Boer and lowered yourself to the level of a Mapor! When you
gave Sibijaan the trousers you became as the dirt under his feet.
White men wear clothes; kaffirs go naked. Does my son, the son of Slim
Gert O'Neil, want to be a nigger?"
Only in one other way did Sibijaan threaten my supremacy as the
undisputed leader of our impi. This was due to his extraordinary knack
in handling clay in the making of models of all kinds.
Not far from the house, along the bank of the river, there was a large
clay-bank. I established a toy factory there and we made all sorts of
clay toys, including idols, oxen, horses, and models of everything we
handled in our daily life. To make it a contest Sibijaan and I, with
our followers, used to compete with Klaas and his in the excellency of
our models. My sister, Ellen, was the judge. Klaas, by the way, was
the other little kaffir who was captured at the same time our neighbor
brought Sibijaan to us.
Klaas would make a number of things, and his followers would duplicate
them. Then he would challenge us to do better, and we would get to
work. Many and many a day we spent in this toy factory, and the
competition was keen. Soon, however, Sibijaan began to outstrip all of
us in the excellency of his models. He was so much better at the play
than I was that I soon found myself ashamed to place my models against
his.
I found myself again in danger of losing caste and soon hit upon an
idea that saved my face. Now the Boers are a deeply religious people.
In our home we always had morning and evening prayers and the fact
that we were scores of miles from the nearest church was the only
reason that we did not attend one. Not long before the toy factory
began to be a sore spot with me, a minister of the Dutch church had
visited Rietvlei. He was visiting the outlying districts of the
Transvaal and performing marriages and christenings. Naturally, the
minister held services, the most interesting part being the sermon. He
spoke with great force and many gestures, all of them most emphatic.
Like all the Boers, he was bearded and had shaggy brows. I found his
sermon most entertaining, although I understood little of what he said.
However, the sermon gave me an idea. I decided I would be a minister
and the very next day commenced preaching. There was a ruined kraal,
formerly the residence of a long-dead cannibal chief, on a little hill
near home. I summoned Sibijaan, Klaas, and all the others of our impi
to attend services there, and then proceeded to deliver a loud
harangue to them. As I spoke in Dutch, with now and then a Mapor
phrase, they did not understand much of what I said, but I made up for
this by my forceful delivery. The natives are never more happy than
when delivering an oration, the words illustrated with full-arm
gestures, and I found my audience most appreciative. Religious
services as I conducted them appealed to the savage mind, and
Sibijaan's superiority as an artist faded to nothing.
Shortly after the minister's visit, my uncle, Oom Tuys Grobler, came
to stay with us for a time. He had come from Swaziland and brought
wondrous tales of battles there. I do not remember what war was going
on, but Oom Tuys made us believe that war was the chief occupation of
the Swazis. He used to while away the long evenings by telling me
about King Buno and his mother, Queen Labotsibeni. To my childish mind
Buno appeared as the embodiment of all things savage and ruthless,
while his mother was not much better. I was fired with the desire to
visit Swaziland and see the great King Buno, and I asked Oom Tuys to
take me with him on his next trip. He did not refuse, but tried to
discourage me by relating weird stories of how white boys were
sacrificed and eaten by the Swazi warriors. These tales did not
impress me very much, since I felt that I would be safe with my uncle,
who was known throughout the Transvaal as the only Boer King Buno
trusted.
These tales of battle inspired Sibijaan, Klaas, and myself with
military ardor, and soon we prepared to play the game of war. This was
only the play of little black boys led by a white, but out of it came
my native name. I am called "Mzaan Bakoor" by all the natives of our
section of the Transvaal. The name means "He of the Great Ears," or
"He Who Hears Everything." How I earned the name illustrates our
method of warfare.
Klaas would lead one force, and Sibijaan and myself the other. Our
weapons were long reeds and pellets of clay. The pellets would be
fixed on the end of the reed and thrown with a full-arm swing. They
would travel like a stone from a sling, and after a short time we
became very proficient in their use. We could hit our target more
times than not, and I well remember that one of these clay pellets
made a dangerous missile.
The battle would start at long range, and sometimes would continue for
hours before we got to grips. When we were satisfied with the
long-range execution, we would rush together and attack one another
with our hands. Sibijaan invented the method followed in this
close-range fighting. Adversaries would pair off, each grasping the
other by the ears. Then would ensue an ear-pulling match which was
only decided when one of the warriors cried quits. Because I seemed
able to stand any amount of this torture, they called me "Mzaan
Bakoor," and the name has been mine ever since. This method of
ear-pulling was another tribute to Sibijaan's cunning, for both his
ears had been bitten off in the trouser-fight and it was practically
impossible for any one to hang on to the remains!
In addition to herding the sheep, we boys were in charge of a herd of
about two hundred little calves. Our chief work with these was to
prevent them getting to their mothers, the milch cows of the farm.
Each morning and evening the calves were allowed to spend half an hour
with their mothers, but the rest of the time they had to go without
milk.
Milking time was always a busy period for us. The cows were kept in
kraals, or open enclosures, and each morning we would have to catch
them for the milkers. This was done with a rope-loop on the end of a
long stick. When the cow was captured the rope would be passed around
a post, the cow being drawn in and securely tied. The suckling calf
was then brought to its mother, and this soothes the animal. As soon
as the cow was quiet, her hinds legs and tail were tied together and
she was ready for milking.
The milker would get ready, and then we would have to drive the calf
away and keep it away with a long stick until the milking was
finished. It was all a primitive and strenuous performance, but these
Afrikander cattle are very wild and cannot be handled.
Another busy period for us would be during the sheep-shearing season.
The sheep are divided into lots and classes, being ear-marked, and it
used to be our work to keep them together and make ourselves generally
useful. Another duty which fell to us was the leading of the ox-teams,
for, in fact, the boys of my impi could be used for every service not
requiring the strength of a man.
During all these busy boyhood days I lived practically the outdoor
life of a savage. My early education was given me by my mother and my
father's private secretary, an Englishman with a university training.
I was quick to learn my lessons, chiefly because success meant speedy
escape to the wild pastimes of the little savages who were my
companions. Practically all our sports had to do with war and the
hunt, so that I grew up to regard death as only an incident in the
life of a warrior and not an event to be feared or worried about.
However, on my first visit to Buno, then king of Swaziland, I saw
death in a form that shocked me by its needless brutality and utter
wastefulness.