War with England--Siege of Belfast--Our boyish impi attacks the
British--Ghosts defeat us--Jafta's friendship--English troopers do the
"sporting thing"--Umzulek still planning deviltry--Death of Klaas, our
jockey--Father sends me away to get an education.
As soon as we reached Rietvlei my father and Tuys closeted themselves
in his office. Mother told me that there was trouble between the
British and Boers and that my father had received certain orders from
Oom Paul Kruger. None of our little army had left Rietvlei when Tuys
came out of the house and summoned its leaders.
"You are all to go to your homes," he said, "and there wait for
orders. There is serious trouble with the English and Oom Paul
commands that all stand ready for whatever may come. God grant that
this is not war."
There seemed to be a divided sentiment about this. Some of the
leaders, particularly the younger ones, did not appear to dislike the
thought of war, but the old men drew long faces and looked very grave.
However, they all mounted and before long the last had left. I did not
realize then that I would never see them all again. The shadow of war
was over the land and many of our troop were later killed.
A short time after our return from Swaziland word reached my father
from President Kruger that he was to visit the leading Boers of our
district and get their opinion regarding the suggested war with
England. War was practically inevitable at that time and my father
found the sentiment almost overwhelmingly in favor of it. He
counselled against fighting England, because he knew of the unlimited
resources of the empire and how impossible it would be for us to win.
Knowing my father's astuteness, the old Boers listened to him and were
almost won over to peace, but just then word came that war had been
declared.
Immediately the whole country blazed up. Every farm and settlement
sent its men, all mounted and armed with the best Mausers and hunting
rifles, and in a trice the Transvaal and Orange Free State were on the
war-path.
It was our misfortune that the British broke into our part of the
Transvaal first. When we heard they were coming, we took everything of
value and moved to Belfast, which had been fortified and where we were
prepared to stand a siege. I shall never forget the excitement of
those days. My mother was in delicate condition and the whole thing
was a terrible hardship for her. For me, and for the rest of us boys,
it was a great and glorious lark!
The air was filled with stories of battles, and before long streams of
wounded men were sent from our field forces to the improvised
hospitals in Belfast. We boys used to watch these caravans with
intense interest and would run errands for the wounded and bring them
presents. These farmer-soldiers were our heroes, and we were proud of
the saying, "For each Boer, five Englishmen," this being the ratio our
fighters claimed was about right.
However, it was not long before we began to find the British could not
be stopped and one morning, late in 1899, Belfast was besieged by
forces under General Paul Carew. We suffered many hardships and I soon
realized that war was a grim and earnest business. My mother would
pray continually that our peril in Belfast be ended either by victory
of our troops or their speedy surrender to the British. She made the
vow that her unborn child should bear the name of the victorious
general, and when, on the eve of the triumphant entry of the British
into Belfast, a little daughter was born, she was given the name of
Paul Carew, with the prefix "Impi," which, in addition to meaning a
regiment, is also the Zulu word for war.
My sister, Impi, certainly lives up to her name. Determination and
fighting spirit are her chief characteristics, and she is equally at
home in handling wild horses or obstinate kaffirs. In addition, she is
one of the best rifle shots in the Transvaal and can beat any one of
her sex when it comes to a race on foot.
General Carew constituted Belfast a British base, and the countryside
was raided and ravaged by the troops making it their headquarters.
Hardly a farm escaped, and even to-day there are ruins that recall
those dark days. But two rooms of our home in Belfast were habitable
and it was in these that we lived. The main British camp was directly
in front of our house, and the situation galled me. I hated the
British for driving us out of Rietvlei and for ruining our home, and
before long I declared war on them on my own account. What happened is
a good example of the way the English treated us.
I gathered all the boys of the town, that is, the dozen white boys,
and drilled them as my impi. Sibijaan, being black, was not allowed to
take part in our war. I considered it beneath me to let him fight with
me against other whites. We armed ourselves with stones and sticks and
late at night made a concerted attack on the British headquarters,
which had been established in the ruins of the local hotel.
We smashed all the windows, and the officers and orderlies came
tumbling out in great haste. The sentries did not fire on us, but
there was a general rush in our direction which resulted in our
capture. When we were brought before General Carew, he asked what we
thought we were doing. None of us could talk English and the
questioning was done through an interpreter. I informed him that we
were loyal Boers and had declared war on the English.
General Carew looked at me very severely and asked me if I was ready
to be shot for a treacherous attack after the town had surrendered.
This was a new thought for me, but I stood to my guns and defied him.
However, I did not like the idea of being buried in the local cemetery
where we boys had seen so many British and Boer soldiers already put
away.
After a few more questions, all of them with the most serious face and
a gravity that could mean nothing but evil for us, the general
delivered sentence. It was that we were to be taken to the improvised
mess-room and fed all the jam, biscuits, tea, and sugar we could eat!
I remember that I was very proud to be given a tin of jam for myself
alone. My sister, Ellen, had been one of our attacking party and she
shared equally in the spoils of our captivity.
But this treatment did not pacify us. Next night we made another
attack, and this time we were really punished. We were captured and
tied to the veranda posts of some houses nearby. Now this would not
have been bad, if we had not been superstitious.
During the days following the victorious entry of General Carew into
Belfast, we boys had been intensely interested in a number of wagons
loaded with the bodies of British soldiers. These wagons were driven
down the main street and the bodies buried in huge graves, oftentimes
eight and twelve to a grave, in the local cemetery. The tale was soon
started that the ghosts of these soldiers walked about the main street
at night.
After we had been tied to the veranda posts it suddenly occurred to me
that we would most likely see these ghosts, and I mentioned this
pleasant thought to my fellow-prisoners. Immediately there arose a
wailing and weeping; our brave little army cried to be allowed to turn
tail and depart to its beds.
Of course the British did not know what was the matter. Ellen, instead
of being tied up like the rest of us, had been taken into the
mess-room and given more crackers and jam. She came out in a hurry to
see what was the matter with us. I told her between gasps of horror,
and she ran in to the mess and through the interpreter told the
colonel. She said later that he regarded it as a huge joke for a
little while, but then, when she became anxious for us, gave orders
that we were to be freed. We scurried home with all speed as soon as
the hated "Tommies" turned us loose. This was the end of our little
war against the British. We might fight _them_, but when it came to
ghosts we lost our nerve.
In spite of stories that have been spread about the Boer War, there
was always a fine sporting spirit between our people and the British.
A good example of this was what happened to one of my older brothers.
Jafta, the Mapor king, was concerned in this.
My father had prospered greatly in the Valley of Reeds, and when the
war broke out owned immense herds of cattle, sheep, and horses. Soon
after Belfast was taken he decided that it would be a good thing to
move his stock into the northern and more remote parts of the
Transvaal. One of my older brothers, two uncles, and a neighbor
undertook the trek with the stock.
Such a trek is slow and tedious work, and shortly after they started
out a galloping outpost of about thirty Britishers came upon them. The
Boers fled. Their horses were tired and trail-weary and they had to
leave the stock without a chance to obtain a remount from the horses
they were driving. They broke for the mountains, and zigzagged about
until they came to the kraal of Jafta, the Mapor king.
They hoped to get fresh horses from him, but Jafta had already been
terrified by the British and feared he would be shot if he helped or
sheltered any Boers. He explained his position to my brother and
begged that the party leave immediately. His horses had already been
confiscated and he could give them no remounts.
But the Boers decided to rest awhile and off-saddled their worn
horses, who soon found their way to the river bank where they could
drink and graze on the tender grass. Jafta was very nervous and urged
the party to saddle and get away.
His anxiety proved justified, for while they were arguing they saw the
squadron of British horse coming at a gallop less than a quarter of a
mile away. It seems that kaffirs had seen the Boers and betrayed them.
Jafta was in a quandary. The safe thing for him to do was to order his
impi to seize the Boers and then turn them over to the English. While
he was making up his mind one of my uncles ordered his companions to
pick up their saddles, bridles, and rifles, and duck into Jafta's
royal hut. As they were doing this he shouted some instructions to
Jafta.
A moment later the Britishers reached the entrance to the kraal.
Jafta, escorted by his indunas, went to meet them. Their officer was
impressed with his regal air and recognized him as king of the Mapors.
They shook hands, and then, through his interpreter, the officer asked
about the four Boer fugitives.
"Yes, Nkoos, they were here," Jafta admitted, "but I was afraid to
give them any food or help. They were very tired and their horses were
tired also. But they went on."
"How long ago was that?" the Englishman asked.
"When the sun was over there," said Jafta, pointing. He indicated a
space of about an hour.
"Well, we must pursue them," said the officer.
"But you look tired," suggested the wily Jafta, "and your horses are
over-taxed. Won't you rest a while and have some tswala and refresh
yourselves? Already it is the hour when there are no shadows (midday)
and it is time to sleep."
The Britisher let himself be lured from the stern path of warlike duty
and accepted. The horses were turned loose to graze and drink, and the
Englishmen partook heartily of tswala and soon dozed off to sleep. The
Boers, inside the hot hut, could do nothing, so they too went to
sleep. It was a funny situation, had it not been so serious. These
enemies were peacefully asleep within a few feet of one another.
About three o'clock there was a general stirring and every one waked
up. The British troopers had never seen the inside of a royal kraal
before, and they asked Jafta if they might be shown about. The king
immediately assented and appointed some of his indunas to act as
guides. It was all new and interesting to the Englishmen and they were
soon about fifty yards away from Jafta's hut.
This was the chance the Boers were waiting for. They slipped out and
gathered up the Britishers' equipment, including firearms, and stowed
it in the hut. A pistol was poked into Jafta's belly and he was also
put in his "palace." A few moments later the Englishmen returned and
found themselves facing the Boer rifles. They surrendered.
Everything was well with our party and they could have made their
escape, taking as many of the British as they wanted as prisoners. But
they knew that the Mapor king would have to pay for his duplicity, and
thus decided that he must be protected.
Whereupon they opened a discussion with the commander of the British
party. They informed him that they would take all the Britishers as
prisoners to their own headquarters unless he agreed to the
proposition that they made. It was this: First, the English must swear
not to give evidence against Jafta at their headquarters; second, they
must allow the Boers to have four fresh horses; third, they must give
the Boers a certain start before again taking up their pursuit. If the
British would agree to these conditions, the Boers would call
everything square and each party would forget that it had ever met the
other.
This proposal struck the British as a good sporting chance, so they
accepted it. Everything was agreed to as demanded. Since there was no
reason for further hostility for the time being, the Boers returned
their arms and equipment to the British and both had a merry feast
that night, during which they consumed all of Jafta's tswala.
Next morning the Boers left at dawn and did not see these Britishers
for some time. Strange as it may appear, these same parties later met
in a battle not far from Jafta's kraal and one of my uncles was shot.
The same British officer was in command of the troops who captured him
and saw that he was treated with every consideration, making him feel
more like an honored guest than a wounded prisoner-of-war. This
officer, by the way, remained in South Africa after the war, and he
usually visits Rietvlei every Christmas and is regarded as one of the
best friends the O'Neil family has.
During the Boer War, Oom Tuys was held accountable for the peace of
Swaziland by both our people and the British. It was contrary to
agreements to use kaffirs in the war, and Tuys made several trips to
Zombode, the seat of Labotsibeni, to make sure that the Swazis were
keeping out of the conflict. Later I heard him tell my father that he
kept both Labotsibeni and Tzaneen quiet by pointing out to them that a
word from him would bring the war to their country.
On one of his trips Tuys dropped in to see our old friend Umzulek and
came back with the report that the kaffir chief was minding his own
business and obeying orders. However, he made Tuys a proposition that
showed him to be still willing to make trouble, if it were profitable.
"The old rascal suggested that he make a demonstration with all his
impis against our borders," my uncle reported. "If he made a great
enough showing, he thought, and news of it reached Oom Paul, our
President would be willing to pay him tribute to keep the peace. It
seems he has been thinking about Buno's monthly gift of two thousand
pounds and the gin that went with it. He has a sort of feeling that it
is a shame to let this money get out of the family! The crafty beggar
only hinted at his scheme at first, but I finally smoked him out and
he admitted what was in his mind."
"What did you tell him?" my father asked, glancing at Tuys keenly.
Father remembered the days of Buno, when ugly rumors used to float out
concerning Tuys's activities in Swaziland.
"I told him to go to hell," Tuys exclaimed, "or I would come with many
rifles and send him there!"
Inasmuch as Umzulek could have no conception of what my uncle meant by
"hell", since the Swazis have no such place in their daily thought, it
is safe to assume that Tuys was using a figure of speech.
Nevertheless, he gave Umzulek to understand that it would be unhealthy
for him to start a row along the border.
We were still living in Belfast when the war came to an end. Our home
at Rietvlei was in ruins and it was almost a year before my father was
able to get a portion of it rebuilt. However, before returning there
we lived for a time in Potchefstroom, where my father had interested
himself in some gold properties. Prospecting was always fascinating to
him and he was usually successful in these ventures.
His English secretary remained in Belfast, safe-guarding his interests
there and making frequent visits to the homestead in the Valley of
Reeds. Our kaffir farmers and servants had been widely scattered by
the war, but soon began to drift back. Each told a different tale of
his wanderings, and many of these were quite harrowing. A number of
our people had escaped to Jafta's kraal and not a few had gone into
Swaziland until the war ended.
Klaas, our old jockey and one of my dearest playmates, had disappeared
during the second year of the war, but one day my father told me that
he had returned to Rietvlei. Father was about to make one of his
periodical trips to Belfast and the Valley of Reeds, and he promised
to bring Klaas back with him to Potchefstroom.
He drove out to Rietvlei from Belfast and found Klaas very glad to see
him. The little fellow was thin and worn-looking, but scrupulously
clean. Father installed him again as his driver and next day started
back for Potchefstroom. A mile or so from the old house father got out
of the wagon to inspect a plantation. He was about seventy-five yards
from the wagon when a threatening thunder-storm broke and a single
bolt of lightning killed Klaas and both horses! This was a great blow
to all of us, because we had come to regard the little black boy with
genuine affection.
Not long after we returned to Rietvlei--such a happy homecoming as it
was!--my father decided the time had come for me to get an education.
Many of the old Boers frowned upon the thought of sending their sons
abroad to be educated, feeling that they would never care to return to
the farms their ancestors had founded in the wilderness with such
bravery and determination. My father, however, was different. He
believed that his sons should be abreast of the times, and he sent me
to boarding-school and later to universities in Scotland and America,
where I received my training as a physician.