SWAZI MOTHER CARRYING HER BABE
Like most of the South African natives, the Swazis carry all burdens on their heads, the women invariably being the beasts of burden. Babies are the only things the women ever carry on their backs, this being because they keep their children with them while doing the housework. The splendid stature and erect carriage of Swazi women is directly due to carrying all weights on their heads

ADVENTURES
IN SWAZILAND

THE STORY OF A SOUTH AFRICAN BOER
BY

OWEN ROWE O'NEIL

WITH MANY ILLUSTRATIONS
FROM PHOTOGRAPHS

NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1921
Copyright, 1921, by
The Century Co.
Printed in U. S. A.
TO MY FATHER
COUNSELOR, FARMER, AND WARRIOR
THIS HUMBLE RECORD IS DEDICATED

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

ADVENTURES IN SWAZILAND

CHAPTER I

How the O'Neils came to the Transvaal—Boers with Irish names—Oom Paul's refusal to buy Delagoa Bay—The Boers break for freedom—Their bloody battles with the savage tribes—The Great Trek—Dingaanzulu's treachery—The Dingaan Day celebration.

I was born only a few days trek, or march, from the Swazi border and even as a youth made numerous trips into Swaziland. Through my uncle, Oom Tuys Grobler, known as "The White King of Swaziland," I was practically adopted by the savage rulers of that country and have always been received with the greatest honor and consideration by the various members of its royal family. My family have always been interested in Swaziland and there was seldom a time when one of my ten brothers was not hunting or visiting there. As one of the O'Neils of Rietvlei, which means "The Valley of Reeds," any of us were welcome.

It may seem strange that Boers should bear the name O'Neil, but this is not out of the ordinary in the Transvaal. There are many Boer families, most of them prominent in South Africa, who have Irish names. My father's first wife was a Madden and our homestead at Rietvlei is only about seven miles from the town of Belfast, which our family founded and named. The record is not clear how these Irish names are found among the Boers, but the fact that many Boers have Celtic names refutes the statement that most of the Irish who fought against the British in the Boer War were renegades from the United Kingdom.

My father is Richard Charles O'Neil, known among our people as "Slim Gert," or "Slick Dick" as it would be Americanized, the title being a tribute to his astuteness and good business sense. He was for six years minister of finance in the cabinet of the late Oom Paul Kruger, who has come to be regarded as one of the really great South Africans, his fame being greater to-day than at the time of his death. Father split with Oom Paul over the Delagoa Bay question and resigned from his cabinet. At that time the Portuguese offered to sell Delagoa Bay to Oom Paul for twenty thousand pounds. This was shortly before the Boer War. Father strongly advocated the purchase, since it would give our people an outlet on the coast, the Bay being a fine harbor. Oom Paul, however, emphatically refused to buy.

"It would only give our enemies, the English, a chance to attack us from the sea," he said, ending the cabinet conference. "Now they can't get to us through Portuguese territory."

To-day Delagoa Bay could not be bought for twenty million pounds.

My grandfather was John James O'Neil, a direct descendant of the O'Neil who fled from Ireland in the time of Oliver Cromwell, and it was he who chose Rietvlei as the family farm. When I say "farm," I use the term in the Boer sense, since Rietvlei includes more than 100,000 acres of the most fertile land in the Transvaal and is quite large even for South Africa, the country of vast distances.

As one of the survivors of "The Great Trek," my grandfather had suffered the most intense hardships and escaped dangers that are almost unbelievable to-day. This trek was the wholesale migration of Boers who were dissatisfied with British rule and had decided to carve out a country for themselves in what was then wildest Africa.

The original Boers were the descendants of the Huguenots who were expelled from France to Holland and eventually went overseas. They made their chief settlement in what is now Cape Town, then a port of call for the far-flung commerce of the Dutch, who were at that time the dominant maritime nation. The British took Cape Town from the Dutch in 1806, but returned the colony to Holland a few years later. Finally, in 1815, the Dutch ceded Cape Town to the British for a sum said to be six million pounds.

Up to that time the settlers of the Cape Colony had only branched out as far as the Great Fish River. This was the limit of safety, since beyond lay trackless wastes and millions of savage natives noted for their hostility and cannibalism. Practically all these settlers were the ancestors of the present Boers.

As is occasionally the case in present times, it was the missionaries who caused the trouble that led to the breaking up of the old Boer homes in Cape Colony. A number of these religious gentlemen came out from England and lived for a short time in the Colony. On their return to London they misrepresented facts to the king to such an extent that a number of restrictive laws and regulations were passed. These made life impossible for the Boers, who have always been a freedom-loving people.

Finally about ten thousand of the burghers got together and commenced their exodus from Cape Colony into the unknown territory beyond the Great Fish River. The Zulus and Basutus met the first party, there was a bitter fight, and every Boer man, woman and child was massacred. In many cases, when the men realized that there was no hope, they killed their own womenfolk so that they might not fall into the hands of the savages.

This bloody tragedy did not deter the determined Boers. Other parties followed, and soon these pioneers founded various settlements. Every foot of their advance was gained by fighting, and the Boer conquest of the Transvaal and Orange Free State may well be said to have been won by the blood of freemen. Some of these expeditions settled in Natal and founded the city of Pietermaritzburg, named after their great leader, Pieter Maritz.

It was during the year 1830 that my grandfather joined the Great Trek and left Cape Colony with a large expedition led by Piet Retief and Piet Potgier. The party had much trouble with the Zulus, its progress being a continuous fight. On reaching the Vaal River, Potgier and Retief came to loggerheads and agreed to separate. Each had his own opinion as to where they ought to go, and each followed his own idea. My grandfather remained with Retief and thereby nearly lost his life. With my grandfather was his brother, Richard Charles O'Neil, after whom my father was named.

Piet Retief was killed by the Zulus, and this massacre is now history, almost sacred history, in the Transvaal. It seems that Retief led his party into what is now Natal and there undertook to come to some basis of peace with the savages. A truce was declared, and he went to the Zulu royal kraal and saw their great chief, Dingaanzulu. The chief agreed to cede certain territory to Retief if the Boer would recover for the Zulus certain cattle stolen from them by another savage nation. This land was to be the first of the new Republic of Natalia, which my grandfather and Retief planned to found.

Retief recovered the cattle and with one hundred burghers visited the Zulu royal kraal and returned them to Dingaanzulu. After the cattle were driven in the Zulu chief sent for the Boer leader, ostensibly to arrange about the land grant. He insisted that the Boers were now his friends and, as such, should leave their weapons outside the royal kraal and enter unarmed. The ruthless Zulu chief said that this would be "an evidence of the good hearts of the white men."

With great foreboding Retief did as he was asked. With his hundred men he went into the kraal and found Dingaanzulu in the most friendly frame of mind. After fraternization the chief told the Boers that a great celebration had been prepared in their honor, and that night there was feasting, dancing, and much speech-making in front of the great fires.

I have often heard what happened next. It is history with us and tradition with the Zulus, Swazis, and other natives of our section of the Transvaal. The story was first told me by an old Zulu who was a sort of farm-helper at our home when I was a little fellow. He claimed to have been there, and from his evidence I believe he was.

"There was a great feast and all the fires were lighted," he said. "Many cattle had been killed and all the royal impis (regiments) were in full costume. These were the picked men of all Zululand, and they danced for a long time before the fires.

"Dingaanzulu sat with the white leader, and they drank tswala (kaffir beer) together. Often they would shake hands, and it was as though they were brothers. All the other white men sat near the fires in front of the king. They, too, had much tswala and plenty to eat.

"When it was quite late and the moon shone through the flames of the dying fires, many of the royal impi gathered behind those who were dancing and waited for a sign from Dingaanzulu. Soon this came, and then the killing! Dingaanzulu stood up and threw his leopard-skin cloak about his shoulders. This was the sign. The waiting warriors dashed through the dancers and threw themselves upon the white men. Assegais flashed, and the Boer leader dashed to his men. These held together and fought the impis with bare hands. Some of the white men were very strong and tore assegais from the warriors and fought with them, stabbing, and stabbing, and stabbing!

"But there were hundreds, even thousands, of Zulus to each white man, and the fight could not last long. All the white men were killed, and some were stabbed scores of times before they died. I do not know how their leader died, but we found him with a broken assegai in his hand and seven dead warriors about him."

As soon as Dingaanzulu had murdered Retief and his band, he sent his impis to kill all the remaining members of the expedition. My grandfather and his brother were in charge of the main encampment, or laager, at Weenan, which means "Weeping," or "Place of Sorrow." The wagons had been formed into a hollow square, and the Boers finally drove off the Zulus after a fight lasting several days. Hundreds of the savages were killed, and the Boers lost a large number of men who could ill be spared.

Then my grandfather and his party settled in the district surrounding Majuba Hill. His brother founded the place known as "O'Neil's Farm" at the foot of Majuba, while my grandfather established and named the village of Belfast on the top of the hill. Following this he moved to Potchefstroom, and from there north-east, where he established the Republic of Lydenburg. These various little republics were discontinued, or rather merged into the modern form of government, when the Boers became sufficiently numerous and communications were established.

After the establishment of the Republic of Lydenburg my grandfather discovered Rietvlei, the "Valley of Reeds," which has been the O'Neil homestead ever since.

The massacre of Retief and his devoted band is celebrated yearly by a three-day holiday in the Transvaal and Orange Free State. The celebration is in the nature of a memorial service, followed by rejoicing. About every eighty miles throughout the Boer country a spot is designated, and the burghers, with their families, trek to this place. This trek is symbolic of the "Great Trek" in which their ancestors died. On the first day of the celebration there is a sham battle in which the fight at Weenan is acted again, and the last two days are given over to religious services and the festivities.

All self-respecting Boer families join in the Dingaan Day celebration, many of them coming scores of miles to do so. The children are taught the story of "the day" in the schools, and it is probably the most important civic celebration of the year.

Piet Potgier's party was entirely wiped out, none surviving attacks made by the combined impis of the Zulus and Basutus.

CHAPTER II

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 Cañon 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 mêlée. 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.

CHAPTER III

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.

SWAZILAND
Drawn by Dr. Owen Rowe O'Neil

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.

CHAPTER IV

I leave for my first visit to Swaziland—Mother warns me about Oom Tuys—Why the Boers paid tribute to King Buno—Queen Labotsibeni, the brains of Swaziland—Buno's visit to Oom Paul Kruger—Our reception in Swaziland—Ezulweni, the "Valley of Heaven"—Buno's rifle—Sibijaan and I explore by night.

About a fortnight later Oom Tuys and I left for Swaziland. I shall always remember getting ready for the trip. For days and days I added to my little outfit, until by the time Oom Tuys was ready to start I had accumulated enough dunnage to fill a wagon. When the bluff old man looked it over he turned to my mother and said, "Well, you are going to lose your son. Owen is going to spend the rest of his life in Swaziland; he is taking enough things to last him for the next hundred years!"

Then he calmly sorted out my kit, leaving me about one tenth of what I had intended taking along.

"We travel light, my boy," he said. "We travel fast and take but one wagon, and that a little one."

A day later we were off. Our caravan consisted of Tuys and me on horses, a light cart drawn by six mules, and half a dozen kaffir servants. Of course Sibijaan went with us, and was elected to the job of driving the mules. The other boys were foot-passengers, their job being to keep the mules moving and do the camp work.

My mother knew Oom Tuys of old and gave me a serious talking to the night before we left.

"My son," she said, putting her arms about me, "you must not follow Oom Tuys too closely. He is wild and sometimes as bad as King Buno himself. You will see many things that we Boers would not permit here, and you must not take these things too much to heart. Remember that you are an O'Neil, and take good care of yourself!" Then she kissed me good-by with a fervor that was quite unusual. We Boers are an unemotional people—that is, on the surface.

Oom Tuys's periodical visits to King Buno had always been a mystery to me. I had heard that they concerned some sort of a tribute to the savage king, but my father never encouraged my requests for details. "That is Oom Tuys's business," he would say. "Ask him why he is the servant of Buno!"

I did, just as soon as we were well on our way. However, I did not use father's words. Even big men hesitated to take liberties with Tuys, and I was only a boy. It was a wonderful day, and as we rode across the veldt into Swaziland Tuys told me the whole story of how he became known as "The White King of Swaziland."

"Mzaan Bakoor, for I shall call you that while we are in Swaziland, just as you shall call me 'Nkoos'," he said, "I go each moon to pay King Buno the tribute. Oom Paul sends me, and I always take two thousand gold sovereigns and quantities of gin and champagne."

This explained the mysterious cases in the wagon, the contents of which I had not yet dared to ask about.

"Buno is a very great man," Tuys went on. "He is a great king and has as many warriors as the blades of veldt grass. His impis are countless, and just recently he has married Tzaneen, a princess of the Zulus.

"Here is how it happened that we Boers must pay him tribute. His father, Umbandine, built up the Swazi power until he had enough warriors to be dangerous to us and to all the surrounding tribes. Even the Zulus feared him. Now Buno, guided and advised by his mother, Queen Labotisibeni, has kept the Swazi impis up to the greatest possible fighting strength, and he is the one savage chief we Boers have to reckon with. He is my friend, and Oom Paul depends upon me to keep him satisfied and prevent him from making war on our people. According to the agreement between Oom Paul and Buno, we pay Buno the gold and gin each month, and I am the one who brings it to him. Lately, however, he has objected to so much gold and wants more gin. Buno says he can only look at the gold, but he can drink the gin. This time I am taking an extra supply of gin."

Tuys explained to me the politics of Swaziland and seemed to think that Queen Labotisibeni was the brains behind King Buno's administration. The wanton cruelties of which Buno was guilty were contrary to the wishes of his mother, but she only mildly protested against them, since they helped to maintain the king's authority. According to Tuys, death was the punishment for all offences, and Buno often butchered his people for no reason at all.

A short time before our visit to Swaziland, King Buno had gone to Pretoria to see Oom Paul. For some time Buno had been sending complaints and objections about various matters to the President, and Tuys would carry these to Pretoria. Finally Oom Paul became exasperated and commanded Tuys to bring Buno to him.

"Bring Buno here," said Oom Paul, "and I will talk to him like a Dutch uncle. We pay too much now, and if he does not soon behave himself, I shall send a commando or two into his country and make a new king in Swaziland!"

Buno's visit to Pretoria is a classic in the Transvaal and shows the kind of man our old President was. Tuys told Buno that Oom Paul was too ill to come to visit him and that he begged that the king of Swaziland honor him by coming to Pretoria. It took much persuasion on the part of Tuys, for Buno thought he was too important a person to visit Oom Paul. Finally Tuys soothed his royal dignity and they started out for Pretoria.

It was a remarkable party. Buno took with him ten thousand of the picked fighting men of the household troops, and these wore all their savage finery. Being of the royal impis, they wore the great white headdresses and carried shields with the king's mark emblazoned thereon. Their costumes were the last word in savage gorgeousness. Each man was armed with the knob-kerrie, assegai, knife, and shield.

At this time the railway from Pretoria to Delagoa Bay was under construction and had already reached Middleburg. The party found a special train waiting for them at this place and Buno had his own private car. None of the Swazis had ever seen a train before and their astonishment at the great "iron horse," as they immediately called the engine, was almost pathetic. When they first saw the engine, seemingly breathing smoke and fire, they were terrified, and Tuys had to reassure them to prevent a panic. Then a number wanted to prostrate themselves before the engine and worship it, so that it was a most difficult thing to prevent their being run over. According to the various accounts of these incidents Tuys had his hands full. Buno, however, refused to be much impressed with the engine or train and complained bitterly because he was not given enough gin.

It was a wonderful sight when the train pulled out of Middleburg. Buno, with Tuys and the royal party, was in the private coach behind the engine, and the ten thousand warriors were packed in a score of open trucks behind. Naturally they all stood, and it was extraordinary to see the thousands of savages in full dress, with wonderment and fear written on their faces, as the train swept by. The trip lasted all night, and when morning came the train pulled into Pretoria. At the station a coach and pair of fine horses waited for King Buno and Tuys. They got in, and then Tuys's natural deviltry asserted itself. He slyly poked the driver in the ribs with his revolver and commanded him to drive as fast as he could. A second later they were off at a gallop.

THE RESULT OF THE NATIONAL SPORT
Two bulls have been killed by a warrior armed only with a short stabbing spear. The bulls are surrounded by a regiment of Swazis with spears pointing inward. The bulls become infuriated, and when made as angry as possible, the chosen warrior dashes into the arena and fights them. He has but one choice—either to kill the bulls or be killed by the spears of his comrades-in-arms. Sometimes more than two bulls are used, thus making the sport more exciting and the measure of the warrior's prowess greater—if he wins. Following the contest, the bulls are eaten at a great feast

INTERIOR OF MILITARY BARRACKS
A warrior making war decorations. Through a peculiar process, hides are treated and worked into shape as braid, which they wear cross-wise around the waist

Now the doors of the trucks were not yet opened and the warriors were gazing in awe at the station, the largest building they had ever seen. Suddenly the cry was raised that their king was being stolen! They began throwing themselves out of the trucks, shouting battle-cries and brandishing their knob-kerries and assegais. There was a wild rush to catch up with the galloping carriage and more than a score of white railway employees and officials were killed in the mêlée.

Mad with fear that they were losing their king, the whole ten thousand of them raced down the streets, and Pretoria thought it was being captured by the savages. Soon, however, they caught up with the carriage, and shortly after fell into orderly array and marched on to Oom Paul's house.

The old President had risen early, as he always did, and was sitting on the stoop of his simple, flat-roofed home, drinking coffee and smoking his pipe. The carriage drove up and the warriors fell into regimental formation as Buno and Tuys got out. As they started for the little gate the ten thousand men gave the royal salute, their feet coming down on the roadway with the sound of thunder, their shrill whistle echoing from the low eaves of the house.

Oom Paul did not move from his low chair. Pipe in mouth, he looked beyond Tuys and Buno, just as though they had been ordinary kaffirs. There was an embarrassing moment—that is, it was embarrassing to the visitors—and then the old man slowly took his pipe out of his mouth and spoke. I have never heard what he said, but according to accounts he made good his threat to talk to Buno "like a Dutch uncle".

"He gave us the very devil," is the way Tuys tells about it. "Oom Paul told us both that we were children, and bad children at that! He said that he was minded to soundly spank us both, and he was so fierce about it that I thought he was going to do it."

The outcome of the interview was that King Buno went home a chastened and contrite monarch and there were no more complaints from Swaziland. This shows the extraordinary character of Oom Paul and explains why he was so highly regarded by all, Boers and English alike.

Trekking with Oom Tuys was a thoroughly delightful adventure. He had planned the trip into Swaziland so that at night we made camp at some Boer farm, and everywhere he was received with open arms. Each night there was a little jollification in which Tuys was the center of interest. He always pushed me forward, and the simple Boers made much of me, all of them knowing my father and having the highest regard for him. Although we traveled fast there was little hardship. It was after the rains and the whole veldt was a bright green, with the little thorn trees in bloom.

We found the Vaal River fordable and the going was easy. Whenever we were unable to reach a farm-house for meals, we fared well on our own biltong and rusks. The biltong, so much eaten in the Transvaal, is dried beef which is usually cut into strips and chunks and eaten without cooking. Rusks are the biscuits all Boers make, and we ate well, having enough of both.

Shortly before reaching the Swaziland border we were met by several fine looking Swazi warriors. I immediately noted their superiority to the kaffirs I had known. They were about six feet tall, perfectly proportioned, and carried themselves with a swinging dignity quite unusual among the Mapors and other natives.

Oom Tuys introduced me to them and they met me as man to man, giving me the same salute they had accorded my uncle. They told Tuys that their king was waiting for him and that he had planned a celebration in our honor.

"You hear that, Mzaan Bakoor?" Tuys asked. "We are going to be royal guests and you will see the real Swaziland. Watch me and do as I do in all things, and you shall have much to tell when we get back to Rietvlei."

As we came up the wide trail to the border of Swaziland, I saw several hundred warriors at the top of the hill. As soon as we came close to them they began to wave their knob-kerries and shields. Down the slope came the deep bass of their voices as they chanted a welcome, the sound being suddenly cut off short as they brought their feet down in the heavy stamp they use when dancing. They were our escort—all picked men of the household impi—and their leader was a noted warrior who was an old friend of Tuys.

After a short halt for this officer to deliver a brief address of welcome, Tuys ordered our party to proceed. I noted that he treated the officer with scant courtesy, and he explained this by saying, "Here I am a king; he is lucky if I even look at him!"

A little later we dropped into the Valley of Heaven. This is really the most delightful valley in Swaziland. It is well watered, and thousands of the natives have their kraals there. Swaziland is a broken country, alternating between veldt of from two to five, and even six thousand feet, and there are small rivers everywhere, flowing from west to east. Each of these rivers has cut out its own valley, but the Valley of Heaven is the most fertile and beautiful of all. Trees, sometimes in clumps but more often singly, are found along the banks of the rivers and each kraal is practically surrounded by big and little ones.

Our progress down the Valley of Heaven was practically a parade. At each kraal or village, a village being a collection of kraals, we would be greeted by hundreds of warriors and children. The women would usually remain in the background, but were quite in evidence. Young as I was, I could not help noting that they were the finest looking savages I had ever seen. These women have perfectly proportioned bodies and stand erect, with their heads thrown back. They are the women of a proud nation, and they show it. I particularly noticed their splendid shoulders, these and their erect carriage being due to carrying all burdens on their heads.

At each village the local chief would offer us tswala, or kaffir beer, and we were lucky to be important enough to be able to refuse to drink. If we had taken all that was offered, we would have been drowned long before the end of the first day in the Valley of Heaven. The fact that our escort consisted of picked warriors from the royal troops and that Oom Tuys was known to be the intimate of their king made it permissible for us to refuse to associate with the little chiefs along the line of march.

Camp on the last night before reaching the royal kraal at Zombode was pitched in the valley, and we saw the sun set over the plateau on which King Buno made his headquarters. After supper that night Oom Tuys confided to me a great secret.

"Buno has asked me a thousand times to bring him a rifle," he said, "but always I have refused. As you know, the Swazis, like other kaffirs, are not allowed to have guns. Death is the punishment we deal out to those who sell rifles to these savages. Now Buno has his heart set on owning a rifle, and the last time I saw him I promised that I would get him one.

"In the cart I have a Mauser with about five thousand cartridges, and the outfit is for Buno. You will want to come to Swaziland many times in the future, so I am going to make Buno your friend for life. I am going to allow you to present the Mauser to him!

"No one will know how he got it and you will be as big a man in Swaziland as I am, once you have given the rifle to Buno. Now what do you think of your Uncle Tuys?"

Naturally, I was very grateful, since I had already begun to feel the lure of Swaziland and dearly wanted to be a little king there myself.

That night was memorable for several reasons. Soon after dark Sibijaan and I climbed up the trail a little way and looked up the valley. Here and there we could see fires burning at the various kraals and quite often the wind brought us the pungent smell of wood-smoke. The sky was clear as it only is in South Africa and the stars glittered with all the hard brilliance of diamonds. However, we did not remain long admiring the beauties of the Valley of Heaven.

Down below us we suddenly saw what seemed to be a dark cloud of men coming up the road. Discreetly we hid in the brush along the trail and watched them go by. They were warriors in full costume, their faces hard and set in the dim light. There was only the sound of their feet on the road and their silence was unnerving. The Swazi warrior chanting and dancing in the sunlight is awesome enough, but when he becomes a silent swift-moving shadow of the night, he is terrifying. Particularly is this true when you are only a small boy and know that the shadow is fully armed and is deplorably careless with his weapons!

Sibijaan was shaking with terror, and as soon as the shadows passed on we started back to camp. Neither of us spoke. We didn't need to. We knew that we wanted Oom Tuys and without a word started for him.

A moment later we saw another band of warriors coming swiftly up the trail, so again we hid. As we dived into our little camp a third band passed. I was very glad to find Oom Tuys smoking by the fire, and for the first time in my life I realized that a fire is a friendly thing.

Tuys noted that we had been hurrying and asked the reason. I told him about the shadows on the trail.

"It is well that you hid," he said. "It would have been better yet if you had not been so foolish as to wander about at night. Don't you know that sudden death is always walking abroad at night in Swaziland? Have I not told you?"

Then he explained that practically all Swazis travel at night, whenever possible, so as to avoid the heat. He said that those we had met were going to Zombode, as the king had issued a call for his warriors to attend the celebration in our honor. That night I waked several times, cold with an unnamed fear, and was comforted by seeing the massive bulk of Tuys sleeping nearby. His steady breathing seemed a guarantee of safety and I would drift back to sleep feeling that the shadows on the trail were far removed from me.

CHAPTER V

Sheba's Breasts and the Place of Execution—Zombode and the royal kraal of Queen Labotsibeni—Common and royal ground—We reach King Buno's kraal at Lebombo—Gin for the king—Buno, the regal savage—I present a rifle to the king—Lomwazi takes me to Labotsibeni—The old queen is worried over Tuys's activities—The shooting match with the king—Tuys and I manage to miss a few human targets.

Next morning we waked to find several hundred more warriors surrounding our camp. A more important chief was in command, and when Tuys had made a brief but leisurely toilet, he talked to him. Again Tuys was given kingly honors, which he accepted with marked condescension. This chief informed him that King Buno was waiting for him and had sent greetings to "his white brother." Many dramatic gestures accompanied this announcement, and I was quite impressed with the manner of the chief. He was a fine figure of a savage and had a great number of scars on his forehead, showing that he had killed many enemies.

We broke camp shortly after and started on the short climb to the top of the plateau. With our escort we made a party of about five hundred, and I felt very proud to be riding with Oom Tuys at the head of so imposing a procession.

When we reached the top, Tuys reined in and pointed across the Valley of Heaven to where two rounded peaks rose about a thousand feet above the river.

"You see those?" he asked. "Those mountains are Sheba's Breasts and are known everywhere in Swaziland. Beyond them is the Place of Execution. If you look closely, you can see that sharp cliff to their left."

The rounded peaks looked exactly like a woman's breasts and were very striking. There are many tales about them and they are supposed to be the home of spirits of all kinds. I could see the cliff Tuys spoke of. It appeared to be a sheer drop of many feet.

The plateau was much like the high veldt in our country. Except for the tall grass and a few rocks raising their rugged tops here and there, it was absolutely barren. These rocks look like little black islands in a vast rolling sea of dull brown. Back of this are the bare mountains, rugged and naked in their rocky barrenness.

We came to a little stream, which appeared to head up in these hills; then suddenly a great collection of huts seemed to spring up out of the plain. Hundreds of poles projected above them, and soon we saw a number of kraals. There were a few patches of trees, their green being the only relief from the dull brown of the scene. We seemed to come suddenly on the settlement because its huts and kraals were of the same color as the grass, which gave them a fine camouflage.

This was Zombode, formerly the royal kraal of King Umbadine.

"Queen Labotsibeni, his royal widow, lives there now," Tuys told me. "All Umbadine's other widows live there, too. I think there are about twenty of them. When we get close you will find that the big mountain behind is already throwing its shadow over the place. It will be cooler then."

Soon we came to the shadow and it was very pleasant to get out of the scorching sun. This mountain was a sort of natural fort and protected Zombode from attacks from the west. East of Zombode was a rolling grass-covered plain.

Close to the outlying kraal was a small stream. We did not cross this.

"That marks the line between the common and royal ground," Tuys explained. "We will follow it and push on to Lebombo, Buno's kraal. If we wished to call on Labotsibeni, we would wait here until we received permission to cross this water. Then we would camp on the royal ground and she would send for us."

By this time I could see scores of Swazis running out of their kraals to inspect us. A chief, accompanied by a score or so of warriors, came to meet us. We kept on, and he caught up to us by running. Tuys paid no attention to him and advised me to do the same. One of our servants told him that "The White King" was going to visit his brother, King Buno, and I looked back to see the chief and his men watching us as we went on.

About three or four miles farther on, over the same barren brown country, we came to another stream. This is about midway between Zombode and Lebombo. Lebombo came out of the ground exactly like Zombode and was situated in exactly the same way at the foot of a high mountain, facing the East. It was simply another Zombode.

"That's where Buno lives," said Tuys. "The big kraal in the center is his, and all the little ones belong to his indunas. Each of the indunas has a number of wives and is the leader of an impi of about a thousand men. King Buno has twenty-six wives and I don't know how many children."

As we went on I could see the people coming out to meet us, the small boys running swiftly and shouting as they ran. Here also there was a little stream separating the common from the royal ground. By the time we reached this dividing line several indunas had come to meet us, and we forded the water and pitched camp on the royal ground.

Tuys went to the wagon and soon appeared with a quart of gin. This he gave to the most imposing of the chiefs, who seemed to be a sort of special representative of the king.

"Tell the great king that his white brother comes with presents and the tribute," he said. "Tell him that our king, Oom Paul, sends greetings and prays that his health is good and that he will live forever!"

"Nkoos, it shall be done!" the induna answered, saluting with his shield and knob-kerrie.

Then he retired swiftly to the royal kraal.

Less than ten minutes later he came back and said, "The great King Buno, ruler of Swaziland and leader of countless warriors, bids you approach!"

Oom Tuys stepped into our tent and called me inside. He gave me the rifle and handed Sibijaan a heavy bag of cartridges. Then he loaded a dozen of our escort with more cartridges and bottles of gin. Thus loaded down, we set out to call on the most powerful and savage king in South Africa.

After passing the triple walls of the kraal we found King Buno standing in front of the royal palace, or rather, hut. He shook hands warmly with Tuys, who handed him the gold. I noted how easily Buno handled it. He was a strong man. While he talked with Oom Tuys I had an opportunity to look him over.

King Buno was well over six feet and must have weighed at least two hundred and thirty or forty pounds. He was very deep chested and had a body like an ox. His legs were well shaped and very muscular. Of course he was too fat, but this was explained by the fact that the Swazis consider corpulence a sign of aristocracy and are proud to "carry weight."

Without doubt, Buno was the most powerful savage I had ever seen. He was every inch a king, and he knew it. While I was admiring him he suddenly turned and looked at me. His eyes were the cruelest I have ever looked into, and it came over me with a rush that he must be quite as black as he was painted. I was only a boy, but I could feel the cruel brutality of this savage the minute he looked at me.

Tuys motioned me to come forward.

"O King, this is Mzaan Bakoor, my nephew, who has come all the way from Rietvlei to bring you the rifle you desire!" Such was his introduction.

Buno shook hands with a grip like a vise and took the Mauser from me. He seemed to gloat over the weapon for a moment, and then spoke:

"The king thanks you, Mzaan Bakoor, little white chief," he said, and his voice was deep and melodious. "You are the near relation of my friend; you shall be the friend of the king. All my subjects shall be your slaves!"

Then he fondled the rifle a moment, throwing it to his shoulder and going through the motions of shooting.

"It is a good rifle," he said, using the native term of "mroer," "and to-day we shall try it. Already I know how to shoot, and this afternoon we shall have a shooting match. I shall show you how the king can shoot!"

There was a little more conversation about the rifle and Buno was much pleased at the quantity of cartridges we had brought. He was as delighted with the Mauser as a child with a new toy. Later that day I found myself regretting that the weapon was not a toy.

At length Buno said something to Tuys that I did not hear. The latter turned to me and said, "I have some business to transact with the king. You go back to our camp and wait for me."

I would have given much to know what this business was. Tuys and Buno had been in some queer deals together and I felt that they were planning another. Both were reckless and lawless, and, backed by the thousands of Buno's impis, they were able to do anything they had a mind to, at least in Swaziland.

Tuys and Buno dropped to their knees and crawled into the royal hut, and I returned to our camp. Sibijaan was as curious as I was and made an attempt to pass in the rear of the king's hut with the intention of hearing something. He did not get far and came back with speed, for he had run into a six-foot Swazi warrior with an evil eye who appeared to be on guard.

Boylike, I was hungry when we reached camp and was glad to see that we were to have fresh-killed beef for dinner. I was munching a rusk when Sibijaan hopped into the tent, his eyes flashing with excitement.

"O Mzaan Bakoor, there is an induna asking for you!" he said. "He says he comes from Queen Labotsibeni and must see you!"

Outside I found a young chief who looked very much like Buno. He had the same great body and hard eyes and carried himself with the same "swank" affected by the king.

"Mzaan Bakoor, little white induna," he said in the same rumbling melodious bass so common among the Swazis, "I am Lomwazi, brother of the king and son of Queen Labotsibeni. My mother would see you and has asked that I beg you to visit her. She waits for you!"

Realizing that it was not fitting that an O'Neil should run at the command of a kaffir queen, I told Lomwazi that I would go when "the shadow of that tree strikes the tent." I estimated this would be in about half an hour, and I was right. Lomwazi, great induna that he was, squatted outside the tent until I was ready. He evidently expected that I might offer him gin or some present, but I decided it would be poor policy to do so, since I intended giving gin to Labotsibeni.

As soon as Sibijaan told me that the time was up I went out and found Lomwazi with an escort of half a dozen warriors waiting for me. Sure that Buno's friendship would protect us, I followed Lomwazi without hesitation. As we went along I noticed the deference paid us and realized that Lomwazi must be a power in the land.

We found Queen Labotsibeni in a nearby kraal, which she used when visiting Lebombo. It was a sort of guest kraal placed at her disposal by King Buno. There were huts sufficient for all her retinue, among which were some of the other widows, whom she ruled with a heavy hand.

Labotsibeni was very stout and tall, even when sitting down, as she was when I first saw her. She had an intelligent face, with the same eyes, though not so cruel, as Buno and Lomwazi. Her beautifully shaped hands were much in evidence, and I don't recall having ever seen cleaner or better manicured fingers. Like the other women in Swaziland, she was practically naked, except for a covering draped from the waist. Her hair was piled high on the top of her head and was bound so that it looked like a melon. When she spoke I noted that her teeth were perfect. This, of course, is the rule in Swaziland, since these people take care of their teeth from earliest childhood. They never finish eating without carefully rubbing their teeth with charcoal or some fine sand. If the Swazis have no fixed religious observances, they certainly are religious in the care of their teeth.

Labotsibeni had not lost her sight this first time I saw her, and she looked me over for a full minute before speaking. Then she motioned to me to be seated and addressed me:

"Nkoos, little white induna," she said, "you come to Pungwane (the native name for Swaziland) as the friend of our great white leader. Oom Tuys is the trusted friend of my son, the king, and you shall be trusted likewise. Our friend always brings presents; thus do we know that his heart is true to us!"

I accepted the hint and produced the quart bottle of gin I had brought for her. She grasped it greedily, and the interview was interrupted until she had gulped down what I estimated to be nearly a pint. Her capacity for gin was extraordinary, I learned later, although all the Swazis will drink alcoholic liquors without restraint. They have absolutely no sense with gin or whiskey, and only stop guzzling when the supply runs out or they are completely paralyzed.

After taking her drink, Labotsibeni wiped her lips on a leaf—one of a pile she had at her side—and then spoke:

"Oom Tuys comes to pay the tribute," she observed, "but my son and he have other plans they will carry out. You are close to the great white man. What are these plans?"

I then realized what she was after. Of course I knew nothing about what new deviltry Buno and Tuys were hatching, but I realized that it would not do for me to appear to be on the outside. I would lose prestige.

"Oom Tuys and the king plan great things for the people of Swaziland," I solemnly assured her. "It is not for me to say what they will do. When we have left Swaziland the king will tell you everything. Until then I must remain silent."

This cryptic statement did not seem to satisfy the old queen and she several times reverted to her question in our subsequent conversation. Lomwazi was also present at the interview, but only spoke to agree with his mother. Behind her in the shadow of the hut sat several of her maids. They watched their mistress keenly and hastened to assist her when she rose as a signal that the interview was over.

The impression Labotsibeni gave me was that she was very cunning and intelligent. I could readily understand the common belief that she was the "brains behind the throne" in Swaziland.

Tuys was waiting for me at our camp and was much interested to learn that I had been to see the queen mother. He was amused to hear that she was anxious to know what business he and Buno were planning.

"So she is worried, eh?" he observed. "Well, that's good for her! She has kept Buno tied to her apron-strings too long, and I suspect she is playing into the hands of the Britishers. We must keep Buno as a friend of our people. If we don't, we shall find the English behind the Swazis in the next war."

After dinner, during which Tuys told me more stories about Buno and his cruelty, we attended the shooting match. I don't suppose there was ever another like it. It was a most terrible exhibition of savage beastiality and ought to have been called the "murder match," instead of a shooting contest.

When we arrived at Buno's kraal we found him walking excitedly up and down, the rifle in his hands. Standing near him were a score or more of his indunas, and we were struck at once by their look of apprehension. Lined up on either side of the wide roadway leading to the royal kraal were thousands of warriors. More than a dozen impis were in line, every man in his full war costume. Their knob-kerries were held at the ready, their shields across their bodies, and each had shifted his assegai to the position used in battle.

The lines of savage warriors stretched away from the kraal for hundreds of yards. It was the first time I had ever seen the impis of the king on parade and it was a most impressive sight. There was a slight breeze and the white plumes on their heads danced in the sunlight. What struck me most was the splendid build and stature of these men. They were all six feet or more and their black skins fairly shone. Most of them wore leopard-skins caught about the waist and on one shoulder.

My rapid inspection was broken by the king. He greeted us vociferously, and I immediately saw that he was on fire with the gin he had drunk. No sooner did he raise his hand in salutation than the impis gave the royal salute. Their deep shout ended with the crash of twenty thousand feet brought down together. The earth fairly shook.

I realize now that this salute was a tribute to the cruelty of the ages. In just such a manner did the gladiators salute Nero with their "Morituri te salutamus!" A few moments after the salute I realized that these men were also about to die.

"Come on, Oom Tuys, come and let the king see how well you can shoot!" Buno shouted. "I have provided the only targets worthy of your skill—you who are noted for your shooting among a race of white men who have conquered all with their rifles! I will shoot first, and then you shall beat me!"

Then he turned suddenly to me.

"And you, too, Mzaan Bakoor, little induna! You, too, shall shoot against the king! First I will shoot, then Oom Tuys, and then you. Each will shoot this many shots," and he held out four clips of five cartridges each.

PRINCESSES AND THEIR MAID TAKING A MORNING BATH