My desire to visit King Buno--How I won the trip on a bet--A Boer race
meet--"Black Hand Tom," the hope of Rietvlei--Klaas's ride to save his
skin--Father gives permission for my visit--Belfast celebrates the
Boer victory.
My absolute conviction that no one in the world owned a faster horse
than "Black Hand Tom," my father's favorite, earned me my first visit
to Swaziland. This was during the summer after the Great Drought, when
the bloody rule of King Buno had become the shame of South Africa.
Day after day I had heard tales about Swaziland that fed my desire to
go and see some of these things, and Oom Tuys never forgot to make my
hair stand on end with his stories about his friend, Buno, and his
warriors. I was just in my teens and the desire to visit Swaziland was
the one thing I lived for. Whenever Tuys came to visit my father I
would get him aside and beg him to take me with him on his next trip.
Indeed, I kept after him until I became a nuisance. Each time he would
promise, and then find a good reason for putting me off until some
time later. His evasions only whetted my appetite for Swaziland, but
it was a kind fate, combined with a little boy's abiding faith in his
father, that finally won the day for me.
Like all the Boers, my father was a great horse fancier and took pride
in several fast animals that he had bred at Rietvlei. Looking back, I
realize that these must have been very good horses, their forebears
being imported stock of the best European blood.
It was in the summer of 1897 that my father arranged a race meet at
Belfast, about eight miles from our home. This was the nearest town,
and the race was to be the crowning event of a sort of festival
lasting several days. Previously my father had caused the word to get
abroad that he had several of the fastest horses in the Transvaal, but
that he was keeping them under cover, hoping for a chance to win some
races at large odds. Of course all Boers are good sportsmen and keenly
interested in racing; in addition, there were a number of sporting
Englishmen who noted the fact that Slim Gert O'Neil was training
horses in the Valley of Reeds.
The result was what my father anticipated. Word was sent to him by the
sporting crowd in Johannesburg that they did not believe that any of
his horses were "worth the powder to blow them to hell"--as the
message was delivered by Oom Tuys. My father took this to heart and
sent back word that the Johannesburgers were invited to bring their
race horses, "if they had any worthy of the name," to the race meet at
Belfast. There was a little further correspondence, which bordered on
insult on the part of the Johannesburgers, and the arrangements were
completed for the meet.
[Illustration: SWAZILAND
Drawn by Dr. Owen Rowe O'Neil]
[Illustration: SECTION OF SOUTH AFRICA
Showing Swaziland and its relative position to other states]
My father sent Mapor and Swazi runners to all the Boer farms within a
week's trek of Rietvlei, announcing the races and inviting his friends
to "come and see what a country-bred can do against the pick of the
Transvaal and Orange Free State." It was a great day for all us little
fellows when we moved on Belfast. All but a few old women left
Rietvlei, and we arrived in Belfast to find thousands of strangers
thronging the town.
Boer farmers had trekked in from almost a hundred miles away, and I
have never seen so many great bearded men in my life. With their great
slouch hats and heavy boots, they could be seen swinging along the
streets in all directions. There were literally thousands of kaffirs,
Mapors, Swazis, Makateese, and Zulus, who belonged to the various
parties of Boers and who kept close to them as they wandered about
Belfast.
Some of the native tribes were at war at that time, I remember, and
there was some fear that there might be an outbreak in the town. This
fear was quelled, however, when word was passed that the first kaffir
who raised a hand would be shot on sight by the nearest Boer. He would
have been, too, because the Boers never hesitate when dealing with the
blacks. Always our people have been firm in their dealings with the
natives, with the result that they have a wholesome respect for us. It
is the English, newly arrived in the Transvaal, who make all the
trouble with the kaffirs. Particularly do the English and American
missionaries create dissension among them. They give the kaffirs
mistaken ideas about their importance in the scheme of things and lead
them to believe that they are as good as white people. Taking it all
in all, they have created more trouble than they have done good. The
missionaries seldom change their teachings, but the Englishmen soon
wake up and after they have been in our country for about a year know
how to treat the natives.
There was no trouble in Belfast, although it was said that there were
several combats outside the town in which about a score of blacks were
killed and wounded.
Our arrival for the races must have been quite an impressive event. My
father on his great horse, wearing his silk hat, led the procession.
Then all his sons and several of the girls followed, on horses also,
and then came my mother in a light road-wagon. After her came our
horses, led by Mapors, and behind them came several hundred of our
retainers, all decked out in their festival costumes and carrying
their short spears and knob-kerries, or fighting clubs.
Oom Tuys met us at the edge of the town. He was riding a great roan
horse and was accompanied by a number of father's friends. From his
gestures I knew that he was excited, and I slyly pressed my horse
forward until I could hear what he was saying.
"The Johannesburgers have brought their best," he told father. "Slim
Gert, you will have to have all the luck in the world to beat their
horses. Never have I seen better! They have also brought much money
and are waiting for you to bet. Will you bet with them? I advise you
not to. They have the best jockeys in the Transvaal, too!"
"We shall see; we shall see," was all father would say.
"They are at the hotel and they wait for you," Oom Tuys went on. "I
told them that I would bring you to them."
My father seemed to start at this, and I saw him look sharply at Tuys.
Then the color mounted in his cheek.
"Who are they that I should go to them?" he asked indignantly. "Why
should an O'Neil of Rietvlei wait on these common gamblers from
Johannesburg? If they want to see me, let them come to my house!"
My father had a house in Belfast where he transacted business and
often spent the night when it was too late or too rainy to return to
the Valley of Reeds.
Soon we reached the center of the town and found thousands waiting to
welcome us. All the Boers knew Slim Gert O'Neil and his sons, and we
received an ovation. We passed through the town to father's house, and
the horses were placed in the small kraal at the rear. He looked them
over, Oom Tuys also being a keenly interested observer, and then went
into the house. We boys remained outside, and it was one of the
proudest moments of my life. So proud was I that I felt impelled to
tell all the town boys what I really thought about father's horses and
in particular about the speed of "Black Hand Tom."
"He is so fast," I assured them, "that he outruns bullets. Only the
lightning can catch him, and I am not any too sure about that!"
Some of the boys jeered at my claim, and thereupon ensued a small
battle. My impi backed me up, and it began to look as though some one
would be badly hurt when Oom Tuys dashed out of the house and
scattered us.
"Mzaan Bakoor, you little devil!" he shouted, catching me by the ears.
"Why do you make so much fight? Why do you tell such lies? 'Black Hand
Tom' will only eat the dust of these Johannesburg horses. They are
race horses!"
Now this was sacrilege. To hear my uncle, the great "White King of
Swaziland," say such a thing gave me such a shock that I forgot to
kick his shins for tweaking my ears. Then came my inspiration! Brought
up among sportsmen, I seized my chance.
"If 'Black Hand Tom' is so slow, then you bet against him. I dare
you!" I said.
"Of course I will. I am no fool!" Tuys assured me.
"All right, Oom Tuys, then you bet with me first," I said. "If 'Black
Hand Tom' wins his race, you must take me with you to see King Buno
the next time you go. I dare you to make your promise good. If
father's horse loses, I'll never ask you to take me to Swaziland again!"
Tuys let me go and hesitated a moment. I taunted him and dared him to
take my bet, and he finally agreed.
"If 'Black Hand Tom' wins, you leave for Swaziland with me in two
weeks," he promised.
We went into the house and found several of the Johannesburg gamblers
there, waiting to talk to my father. They were drinking gin and
whiskey, and I remember marveling at their wonderful clothes. Never
before had I seen such waistcoats or such cravats, and their great,
soft, light-colored hats were a revelation to me. I particularly
noticed that they all smoked long black cigars, wore huge diamonds,
and talked in loud coarse voices.
Soon father's secretary came into the room. In his quiet English way
he told them that his master did not care to see them that night and
would talk to them in the morning. The races were to be next day and
the gamblers left the house quite disgruntled. As they went out of the
door I heard one of them say, "Never mind, we'll get his money
to-morrow!"
Shortly before prayers that night I told my father what this man had
said, but he only smiled in his dry way.
"Don't worry, Owen, my lad," he said. "Your father is not always such
a fool as he might look. To-morrow night may have another tale to tell!"
However, I went to bed much troubled that night. We seemed such
country people compared to these flashy horsemen from the great city
of Johannesburg. I tried to sleep though quite unhappy at the thought
that father might be mistaken, but his quiet confidence somehow
reassured me to a certain extent. My father was a very great man to
me--the greatest in the world--great even when compared to Oom Paul
Kruger, our idol. It seemed impossible that his horse should not be
the best and, comforted by my faith, I finally fell asleep.
Oh, the glories of the next day, the day of the races! Even before
breakfast we boys trudged to the race track and watched several horses
working out. Two of them were from Johannesburg, and even their
blankets failed to hide the fact that they were fast. In addition to
their white trainers, each horse seemed to have almost a dozen kaffirs
in attendance, and all about the track were hundreds of black and
white men watching the trials.
On all sides of the track, also, could be seen the wagons of the Boer
farmers who had trekked in to the meet. Slender spirals of smoke were
rising from each group, showing that breakfast was being prepared.
There must have been hundreds of wagons, and the whole territory about
the race track was one great camping-ground.
We returned to the house to find father and Oom Tuys out in the kraal
carefully examining our horses. I remember how father ran his hands
lovingly over the sleek body of "Black Hand Tom." The horse would
allow few to approach him, but he nuzzled my father's hand, as though
to say, "I'm fit for the race of my life. I will not fail Slim Gert!"
After breakfast, instead of taking our horses to the track, my father
had them worked out along the road which ran by the house. Later I
learned that this was a disappointment to the gamblers from
Johannesburg. They had hoped to see "Black Hand Tom" on the track
before the race, so as to get a line on him.
Shortly afterward my father and Oom Tuys rode over to the track, and
we all trooped after. Early as it was, crowds were beginning to gather
and I never saw so many people in my life. I was surprised at the
number of white men there. I knew that there were millions of blacks
in our country, but was greatly astonished to see so many of our color.
Father rode among the wagons surrounding the track, greeting his
friends and everywhere receiving a joyful welcome. Each one asked him
about his great horse, and his answer invariably was, "He is ready to
do the very best he can. The rest is with God!" This seemed to satisfy
the Boers, and I know it was all I wanted to hear. I immediately
announced to all the lads with me that the race was as good as won.
Oom Tuys took occasion to remind me of our bet and chaffed me, saying,
"Now you will never see King Buno!" This made me wrathy. It was
unspeakable that he should doubt that father's horse could do anything
but win!
While at the track I remembered a little talk I had planned to have
with Klaas. Owing to an uncanny knack with horses, the little beggar
had been trained as our jockey and was to ride "Black Hand Tom" in the
great race. Sibijaan and I returned to the house and looked him up. We
found him chumming with the horse, and called him out of the stable.
Now Klaas was smaller and lighter than either Sibijaan or myself and
stood no chance with us in combat of any sort. We took firm hold of
him--Sibijaan by his arms and I by his ears--and then I delivered my
ultimatum:
"You see all these white men, Klaas," I said. "They are thieves. They
have come here to steal all the Ou Baas's (Old Boss's) money. You've
got to ride your best to-day. 'Black Hand Tom' is the best horse.
He'll win if you ride him right. If you lose, Sibijaan and I will kill
you! Won't we, Sibijaan?"
My fellow conspirator most emphatically agreed. He made motions that
illustrated a neat and expeditious way of cutting Klaas's throat and
of visiting other unpleasant deaths upon him. Klaas was properly
impressed.
"If I don't win the race I am willing to die!" he said, and with this
understanding we returned to the track. I found my father surrounded
by the Johannesburg gamblers, and squeezed my way into the group to
find much betting going on. With Boer shrewdness, father was demanding
and getting good odds. He took the stand that "Black Hand Tom" had
never been raced and had never won a race, while the horses of the
others were tried campaigners of great reputation. The gamblers
grumbled, but finally gave odds, until father stood to win or lose
thousands of pounds.
Finally race time came. I suppose there never was such a crowd as
swarmed about that track. It was about three quarters of a mile
around, and the entire circumference was lined with people. The whites
were all grouped about the start and finish line, while all the
remaining space was one deep belt of black men. There were literally
tens of thousands, among them many women.
The distance of the race was four times around the track. Excitement
was intense when the horses came out on the track. It was a perfect
day, the sky cloudless and the air like diamonds in its sparkling
clearness. "Black Hand Tom" was the last horse out, but the minute he
appeared, with Klaas perched on his back and all decked out in the
O'Neil colors, there was a roar from the crowd.
I was at the starting-line, Sibijaan at my side, and we were fairly
dancing with excitement. A moment later the horses--nine of them--were
strung out along the line and the starting began. Three attempts were
made, our horse always being the last over the line. This was criminal
in my eyes, and both Sibijaan and I shouted threats of sudden death to
Klaas.
On the fourth try they were off and the race was on. If I live to be
as old as Queen Labotisibeni, I shall never forget the agony of that
race! Round and round the horses went, first one and then another in
front. At the end of the first lap "Black Hand Tom" was last. We
shouted ourselves hoarse, hurling imprecations at Klaas. At the end of
the second lap our horse was next to last, and then Sibijaan and I
knew exactly how we would despatch Klaas as soon as we could get hold
of him.
Then came the sensation of the day, of the age! At the first turn of
the third lap "Black Hand Tom" swung wide and began to pass the other
horses. One by one he caught them and went by. Each time he passed one
the crowd fairly roared its head off. As they swept by on the
beginning of the last lap there were only two horses ahead of ours,
and they seemed tiring. At the first turn "Black Hand Tom" passed one
and then, on the back stretch, went by the other! The crowd fairly
split the heavens. A moment later "Black Hand Tom," the greatest horse
in the world, tore over the winning line a good three lengths in the
lead! Absolute pandemonium broke loose. I remember catching hold of
Sibijaan and dancing up and down like a lunatic. Every one seemed to
be doing the same thing.
We tore through the mob to where our horse stood entirely surrounded
by crazy Boers and as many natives as could get close. There was
father, quiet and self-contained, with his silk hat on his head at the
usual angle. He was as undisturbed as though nothing had happened and
seemed more anxious to get out of the crowd than anything else. From
all sides his friends crowded in on him, shaking his hand and patting
the great horse. Klaas, still in the saddle, wore the air of a
conquering hero, and some enthusiastic Boer had presented him with a
lot of money which he held closely clutched to his thin stomach.
Father spied me and smiled the ghost of a smile. He reached out his
hand, and when I took it said, "Well, you have won your trip to Buno's
kraal!" This was the first inkling I had that he knew about the bet,
and later I learned that he had agreed to my going because he felt my
faith in him and "Black Hand Tom" deserved the trip.
That night there was a glorious celebration in Belfast. Great fires
were lighted in the streets and much gin and whiskey was consumed. The
kaffirs danced until the small hours and their chants filled the air.
We boys were part of it all, and Klaas was the hero of the hour. In
fact, so great a hero was he that Sibijaan and I were glad to bask in
his reflected glory. The little beggar fully enjoyed his hour of
triumph and it was well he did, for we soon took him down a few pegs
when we got him back to Rietvlei.