Chapter XVII

L'Tunga's "muti" cures the sick white man--Sebuza chooses his wives--I receive a message from His Majesty's High Commissioner for Swaziland--A flying trip to Mbabane--The Government refuses sanction to Sebuza's coronation--How witch-doctors smoke dagga weed.

Sugden was wide awake when we reached the camp and despite his condition was overcome with curiosity. He could see nothing, being shut in by the tent-walls, and was too weak to get up and look out. Suddenly, while we were watching Sebuza enjoy his ornaments, I saw the side of the tent being feebly punched from within. I raised the flap, and there was Sugden regarding us with his fever-bright eyes. He hated to be left out of the party and had signaled for me to count him in. I went to him, but my heart sank. He was the sickest man I have ever seen. Except for his blazing eyes, he had all the look of a dead man.

Every one looked at us, and a second later L'Tunga leaned over me and asked what was the matter with the "sick white man." I held Sugden's poor head in my arms as I told him. The witch-doctor nodded and then straightened up.

"Nkoos, I will cure him!" he said. "I will make a magic that will make him well. I go, but I will come back soon and bring the muti."

He left, and I laid Sugden down and pulled the tent flap. He was exhausted by his effort to join the party and was nodding with the sleep that was nigh unto death.

Now I was very curious about the "muti" of the witch-doctor. I knew that their rites and rituals were all humbug dressed up in feathers, but every now and then they did something that was quite amazing. It was certain that they knew things about the herbs of their country that we white men did not, and I never felt sure that they were the fakirs we thought them to be.

In a few minutes L'Tunga returned, and this time he carried a wand tipped with feathers. He stood for a moment regarding us, and then went to the side of the tent and drew up the flap, showing poor old Sugden asleep but barely alive. Then L'Tunga motioned me to help him move the cot out into the sunlight.

Carefully, for this savage was as gentle as a woman, we placed Sugden with his head facing the sun, and then L'Tunga got busy. We stood back to give him room, and he certainly needed it. He started to dance and chant, circling the sick bed and waving his wand round and round. I could not understand what he chanted, but it seemed to be something about it being time for the "devil" to leave the sick white man, since he, L'Tunga, had come.

This ceremony must have lasted fully fifteen minutes, and Sugden slept through it all. I watched his breathing, for I was afraid that he would not live. The show ended with the witch-doctor picking up a handful of dust and holding it to Sugden's nostrils. After a moment he threw the dust to the winds and then drew from his loin-cloth a small package wrapped in skin. This he undid, and then asked for "emantzi, emantzi," meaning water. Crespinell brought him a little mug full of it, and he poured all but a few tablespoonfuls on the ground. Then he took some of the contents of the little package and mixed it with the water in the mug.

I had been thinking rapidly. He could not hurt Sugden, since the white man was beyond all human aid, and was only living through sheer will power. There was a faint chance that he might do him good, and I made up my mind to let the witch-doctor alone.

A moment later L'Tunga had forced Sugden to drink the contents of the mug. Immediately he dropped off to sleep, as though drugged. After watching him a moment L'Tunga turned to me and said:

"At sunrise to-morrow I will come and give him more muti. In three or four days he will be well!"

Then, with all the dignity of a great civilized specialist, he shouldered his magic wand and withdrew.

Sebuza and the rest of us had watched his operations with great interest, and the young prince left shortly after, his indunas carrying the "jewelry" and gin.

We were all curious to see the effect of the witch-doctor's prescription, and had quite an argument about it. I found that Tuys was sure that it would cure Sugden, and both Crespinell and Rossman were inclined to agree with him. I remained skeptical and sent for Sibijaan to ask him what he thought. I knew that my old playmate was in touch with many things that a white man could not know and I asked him about the "muti" that L'Tunga had given Sugden.

"Ou Baas, it is a magic leaf," he told me, "and only the head witch-doctor knows where it grows. They say it is found in only one place, and that is near Sheba's Breasts. He gets it when the moon dies, and always goes alone. But it will cure 'Mlung Emantzi Eenui. The 'muti' is only for royalty and some of the great indunas. L'Tunga would not give it to the common people."

He was so certain that the medicine would save Sugden that I began to find myself half-believing that it would. That night I sat by the latter's bedside for many hours. He never stirred. All night long he slept as though heavily drugged, never once making a move. Next morning the fever had much abated and his pulse was nearly normal. He did not awake, however, and when L'Tunga arrived to give him another dose, he only came to enough to swallow it. I noted, though, that the dysentery had stopped.

Four days later Sugden was well. He was weak as a cat, but food soon remedied that, and within ten days he was on the job and as cheerful as ever. I made up my mind from that time on not to scoff at witch-doctors. I tried to get L'Tunga to give me a little of his "muti," but this he resolutely refused to do, even when I offered to buy it with all sorts of things dear to the savage heart. Some day I am going to get some of that "muti" and have it analyzed; it may be a drug that will be of value to all of us who live in that section of South Africa.

During Sugden's recuperation Tuys and I had visited the royal kraal every day and had always had pleasant talks with both Sebuza and his mother. But we did not succeed in getting any nearer to the coronation. The queen was entirely at a loss what to do and Sebuza kept growing more impatient every day. As he was a man now, he felt entitled to start housekeeping, and his mother set about procuring wives for him. Lochien assisted in this delicate operation, and it was rather an interesting event. The Swazis follow about the same procedure in this business as their civilized white brethren. The only difference is that the Swazi method does not employ so much camouflage.

The fact that Sebuza had reached manhood and would soon become king was known throughout practically all the savage tribes of South Africa, though it naturally was of paramount interest in his own country. All the indunas and his relations, such as Umzulek, Debeseembie, Vilakazi, and others, knew that he would have to have wives. Their children were logical candidates for this honor, so that there were many conferences at Lebombo between Tzaneen and those who had daughters to sell.

Now the Swazi, from the highest to the lowest, sells his women. Women are the "pound sterling" among all the savage tribes, and the unit of value is five cows for an average maid who is young, sound in limb and wind, and trained to the primitive duties of her race. These consist chiefly in ability to do a decent day's work in the fields, the making of tswala, and the cleaning of a hut or kraal. Of course the care of children is considered important.

A Swazi's wealth is measured by the number of wives he has. The number of his cows and other livestock is secondary. For instance, Umzulek is regarded as a millionaire because he has sixty wives and more than two hundred and forty children. The average Swazi induna has five or more wives, and some have many more.

The price of a woman depends greatly on her birth and beauty. All the Swazi women have fine bodies, and many are very handsome, according to the native standard. Princesses sell for as much as fifty cows apiece, and a wife is always proud if she brings more than the market price. In fact, her importance as a wife is usually based on her purchase price.

When the time arrived for Sebuza to choose some wives, there were quite a number awaiting his inspection. The morning that he looked them over they were assembled in the "Sacred Bathing Pool," a sort of market-place. Their owners, mostly parents, stood beside the crown prince and extolled the virtues of their offspring. The maidens were lined up along the banks of the pool and the prince examined them most minutely.

It was almost pathetic to see how these dusky belles bore up under his inspection. Each looked appealingly at Sebuza, much after the fashion of a dog that hopes to be petted, and almost quivered with the hope that she would be selected. The thought came to me that the rejected ones must face a hard life when they were brought back to their home kraals.

Sebuza chose five of the girls, and they were straightway sent to his kraal. The rejected ones were immediately clothed and their owners took them away. Later in the day Lochien told me that all the girls selected by Sebuza were exceptionally high caste and that between forty and fifty cows had been paid for each.

My companions were sadly disappointed over Sebuza's wholesale marriage. They had expected a wild ceremony and much savage celebration, but I explained to them that the Swazis did not go in for that sort of thing. There are no marriage ceremonies whatever--the man pays for his wife and she belongs to him from that hour until he dies. He may accumulate other wives, and this custom is so old that all the wives live together in peace, such a thing as jealousy of the white kind being unknown. From what I have seen of the toilsome lives of these wives, it would seem to me that their contentment is based on the old saw which sagely observes that "misery loves company." Another advantage of plural wives is that each additional wife lessens the labors of the others.

Although there are no marriage rites beyond payment for the wife, there are very strict customs in regard to widows. If the deceased husband is an induna of importance or a connection of the royal family, it is customary for the king to take his pick of the widows. If, however, he has no interest in them, the nearest male relation who can afford to keep them inherits as many as he wishes. Of course, when a husband dies all his wives shave their heads in token of mourning. As they have trained their hair to grow in a sort of pyramid, the hair is shaved clean up to this structure. Daughters of the dead man have their hair shaved right off; if they are already wives, this does not apply, since the claim of the husband is greater than that of any other relative.

We did not pay our usual visit to Tzaneen the day Sebuza married his first installment of wives. Instead, Tuys and I remained in camp planning some way to accomplish our mission and my companions made good their threat to learn something first-hand about Swazi life.

Next morning trouble of another kind occurred. A government messenger arrived with a communication for me. He had located me at Zombode, where they told him that I had gone on to Lebombo. This messenger was a Swazi induna with six warriors, and he carried himself with a good deal of swank. Evidently he was impressed with his importance. I know he snubbed Sibijaan, and my boy was breathing fire when he came to announce this arrival.

The messenger waited for me in front of the tent, with his warriors drawn up behind him. It was quite a military turnout, and he saluted me with gravity and impressiveness. Across one shoulder he had a small despatch-case on which were the arms of Great Britain in well-polished brass. From this he took an official looking envelope and handed it to me with a flourish.

It was a communication from His Majesty's High Commissioner for Swaziland, and it "begged most respectfully to call to your attention" the fact that I had passed through Mbabane without acquainting the government officials with the details of my expedition into British territory. At once I realized my mistake, and could have kicked myself for not calling on the Commissioner and telling him about my project. I knew how these British officials work. First they are punctiliously polite and request information. If they do not get it speedily, they remain polite but make certain definite demands. If still unsatisfied, they become annoyed in a polite manner and take "proper measures." These latter oftentimes consist of a "flying column," which makes it decidedly uncomfortable for the object of their well-bred attentions.

I read the missive from the Commissioner and for a moment intended replying to it. Then I realized that any reply would seem impolite and possibly evasive, so I decided to make a quick trip to Mbabane and make the laggard call on the Honorable Mr. Honey. I gave directions that the messenger and his men should be fed, and then had Sibijaan inspan the six mules and prepare the wagonette for the trip.

Oom Tuys was missing and I suspected that he had gone to the royal kraal. I went over there and found him sitting with Lochien outside the royal hut. The queen was asleep inside and several of her maids were busily engaged in hairdressing, a most important function among high class Swazi women.

I told Tuys what I intended doing and he agreed that it was the right and proper thing. One caution he gave me, however.

"Forget I am here, Owen," he admonished. "The British don't like it, as you know. If Honey asks about me, you will have to lie. I am not here!"

We talked in Dutch, and he told me that he would keep the kettle boiling while I was away and try to gain a step or two in my absence. He seemed quite happy and enjoying himself with Lochien, so I left him after he had reminded me that it would be a good thing to get the messenger and his men out of the camp as soon as possible.

We all started together for Mbabane. I had practically nothing in the wagonette and the mules were in fine fettle after their long rest. Sibijaan drove, and it was not long before we left the messenger and his escort far behind. The Valley of Heaven was as beautiful as ever and the trip a pleasant one. We arrived at Mbabane on the evening of the second day, having made better than twenty miles a day.

I stopped at the little hotel and the mules were turned into the kraal of the livery-stable across the way. After washing the travel stains away, I reported to the Commissioner's office. Owing to the midday rest, or siesta, he usually remained at his desk until about seven o'clock, and I caught him shortly before he closed up shop.

The interview was typical of governmental business as conducted by such officials. My name was taken in by his clerk and shortly after I entered the comfortable office with its large screened Windows. Mr. Commissioner Honey sat at his English desk writing with a scratchy pen. After a moment he looked up.

"Well, Doctor O'Neil?" he said with a rising inflection.

It was just as though he had reminded me that I was guilty and was waiting to hear me plead. There were a dozen other meanings, all unpleasant, in that little word "well." I never realized before that one monosyllable could mean so much. I knew that he had me right, as it were, and I decided to act as innocent as possible.

"Mr. Commissioner, I received your letter," I said, "and I considered it would be best and more polite to reply to it in person than to send an answer by your messenger."

"Very good, Doctor, very good," he answered. "Now will you be so kind as to tell me what you are doing at Zombode?"

I did so. I told him all about the plan to take pictures of the coronation of Sebuza and how I was meeting obstacles which appeared insuperable. I told him that I had moved my outfit to Lebombo and gave him satisfactory reasons for the change. I could see that my candor impressed him favorably. There was no reason why it should not. What I told him was the truth. Of course I related how L'Tunga had saved Dr. Sugden's life, and this impressed him deeply. He let me talk for some twenty minutes, and then leaned back in his chair and gave me some advice.

"If I were you, Doctor," he said, "I would not waste more time waiting for Sebuza's coronation. It is my opinion that this will not take place for some time, possibly a year or so. You may not know it, but the young gentleman is not in the best graces of His Majesty's Government and it may mean a long delay before official permission is granted for him to reign.

"Your expedition is costing you a lot of money and it seems a shame for you to remain in Swaziland with no chance of fulfilling your mission. If you will take my advice, you will return to Ermelo and wait until I send you word that the coronation has received the official sanction of our government."

This was a blow to my hopes. I had no idea that Sebuza would not be recognized by the authorities and it began to look as though my expedition were a wild goose chase after all. We talked a little while longer, but I was not able to find any specific reason for the government's dislike of Sebuza. Apparently there was a general feeling that he would try to follow in the footsteps of his father, Buno the Terrible, and the government regarded Swaziland as a sleeping dog that it would be unwise to awaken.

Our talk ended when Mr. Honey rose to his feet with the remark, "Of course you are dining with me tonight?"

I assured him that I would be most pleased, and he told me that eight o'clock was the hour. This barely gave me time to get back to my hotel and dress, but I made it. I got into my dinner-coat and fresh linen while I cursed the habits of the English. They will take civilization--particularly of the "dinner" kind--with them no matter where they go!

Dinner proved a delightful affair. There were half a dozen people there, including several of the minor officials and their wives. It was a gay party and the food was excellent, being served in London fashion by several silent-footed Indians. The thought came to me that British officials certainly "do themselves well." We talked about many things, none of them concerning Swaziland or its coronations, and it was a pleasure to have my worries banished for a few hours.

After dinner we played "bridge," and then I went back to my hotel feeling as if I had stepped out of an English drawing-room into the heart of Swaziland. At his door the Commissioner shook hands and gave me a parting word.

"Better come back and avoid trouble, Doctor," he said. "There isn't likely to be any coronation this year and you always run the change of getting into a fight. If you stay, be careful! His Majesty's Government is interested in the peace of Swaziland. Goodnight and cheerio!"

Previous to being offered for the choice of Crown Prince Sebuza of the Swazis]

I was rather blue that night as I went to sleep. It looked as though my voyages, privations, and trouble had all been for nothing.

Next morning Sibijaan and I set off bright and early. He told me that a kaffir had chummed with him at the kraal and had enquired whether Oom Tuys was with my expedition. Sibijaan had lied, as he knew he must, and then I understood why the Commissioner had carefully refrained from making me perjure myself. My only hope was that Sibijaan had been a convincing liar. Otherwise, the fact that Tuys was with me would make the Commissioner watchful of my activities.

On the way back through the Valley of Heaven I came to the conclusion that something had to be done, and done quickly, if Sebuza was to be made king. What this something was, however, I only had a vague idea. I wanted to talk it over with Tuys before taking any action, since his help would be necessary.

My uncle was waiting for me when I reached camp and seemed anxious to know what the Commissioner had said about him. When I told him that he had not mentioned his name, his pride seemed hurt, but he cheered up when I related how the kaffir spy had tried to pump Sibijaan.

"I would hate to think that the British have ceased to worry about me," he said. "I have had a good deal of fun by teasing them, and I'm not ready yet to settle down and become a farmer all the time!"

There was not much harm in Tuys, but he was Boer enough to enjoy worrying the British and the fact that he was not wanted in Swaziland made his sojourns there all the more enjoyable.

Next day we visited Tzaneen, and I found that she was much interested in my sudden trip to Mbabane. Her indunas had told her that I had received a summons to visit the Commissioner and she was curious to know all about it. I told her why Mr. Honey wanted to know about me and then repeated his advice.

"Yes, Mzaan Bakoor, I know all about the government opposition to my son becoming king," she said. "He has so many followers that they are afraid of him. The British fear Sebuza because they would sooner have a weak old woman like Labotsibeni in Swaziland than a strong man and a son of Buno."

"How many followers has Sebuza, Nkosikaas?" I asked, for this was part of what I was thinking.

"Mzaan Bakoor, you of great magic, can you count the blades of grass in the field?" she replied.

Then she assured me that all Swaziland was behind the young prince. She further told me that this was the chief reason why Sebuza was disliked by the government and added that he had been impudent to some British officials. I had heard rumors of this, but had placed small weight in them. Now, it seemed, Sebuza must have over overstepped the mark and no reconciliation was possible for some time. This, added to what I had heard in Mbabane, made me despair of accomplishing the object for which I had come to Lebombo. There was more talk along the same line and we treated the queen to a bottle of gin. This led to a peculiar incident.

That night Sebuza came to our camp and asked to see me. I thought he might have something of importance to communicate, but all he asked was that I stop giving gin to his mother! This, of course, was impossible. She was in authority until he became king and her request for liquor was a command we dared not disobey.

Sugden had spent the afternoon with L'Tunga and had watched the witch-doctors smoke dagga weed. I had forgotten to tell him about this and he was much excited over the discovery. With his faculty for observation, he had made a serious study of how the Swazi uses the weed and was much interested in its effects.

"L'Tunga took me to his witch-doctors' school," he told me, "and I watched them smoke dagga. It is a small leaf that must be something like tea before it is dried. Believe me, it has a 'kick.' There were about twenty of these witch-doctors sitting in a circle in their kraal, all hitting the pipe. They have a crazy way of smoking it, too. You've seen the pipe, haven't you? It's a great long thing, very badly made, and it takes a strong man to make it draw.

"The way they smoke is this. The first man takes a calabash of water and then drops a coal into the pipe, thus lighting it. He next sucks on the pipe until he gets his mouth full of smoke. Then he attempts to fill his mouth with water, all the while trying to prevent any of the smoke from escaping. When he can no longer hold the smoke and water in his mouth, he blows them out together. It is a sort of smoky shower-bath!

"Most of them could only do it once. Almost before they could pass the pipe on to the next doctor, they would keel over and go sound asleep. For some reason or other the smoke did not affect them all in the same way. Some of them became happy and began to chant, but they, too, soon grew drowsy. For plain unadulterated 'kick,' the dagga weed has it over anything I've ever seen, though it resembles hemp in its action."

It seems that L'Tunga did not join this smoke-party, but took Sugden to where he could see the common Swazis indulge in the same pastime. Not being allowed the great pipe of the witch-doctors, they had a method of their own.

First they dig a little hole in the ground. Next a narrow trench is scraped out of the earth leading from this hole to another of about the same size. At the bottom of this trench is placed a freshly cut stick, and this is buried in the hard soil by covering it with wet clay. When the clay is firmly packed the stick is drawn out, leaving a little tunnel. Then clay is used to build a small mound over the second hole, through which an opening is made which connects it with the little tunnel. This is the mouthpiece of the pipe, the tunnel is the stem, and the first hole is the bowl.

"The Swazis filled the hole with dagga weed and lighted it with a hot cinder from the fire in front of the kraal," Sugden concluded. "Then, one by one, they sucked the smoke through the mouthpiece. They used the water method, also. It was an amazing sight! One after another they would fall over, the next man at the pipe usually having to drag the body of the last one out of the way."

I had seen these dagga orgies before and knew what they were like. Sugden, however, thought it a most unusual spectacle and would have taken a whiff of the dagga himself if he had been urged. His interest was purely scientific, of course, and he succeeded in obtaining a few leaves of the plant which he proposed to have analyzed when we reached civilization again.