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 Canyon of the Colorado in America. Since the beginning of time the little rivers of Rietvlei have worn down the veldt until they have hollowed out thousands and thousands of acres. From the cool high veldt to the fertile green Valley of Reeds is a wonderful change, and it takes a full hour to climb down the winding trail.

My grandfather, John James O'Neil, was the first white man to see Rietvlei and he immediately decided that he need look no further for his home. He at once settled there and went through many hardships to found his home. The natives inhabiting the valley were the Mapors, then a powerful and hostile tribe. My father built our present home, which is of white limestone, iron, and wood, all of which had to be brought some six hundred miles by ox-teams. It was many years before the house was completed, but my father intended it as the permanent home of the O'Neils and it will stand for centuries.

The hardships endured by my grandfather and father were such as would have daunted less stern men, but they were Boers and all Africa knows them to be the greatest pioneers the world has ever seen. Jafta, king of the Mapors, whose royal kraal was about forty-eight miles from my home, was my family's greatest enemy. Both my grandfather and father were constantly at war with him and were forced to maintain a large force of fighting men to repel his attacks. There was always the threat that Jafta would overwhelm the little band of doughty Boers in the valley, and the white men practically lived with their guns in their hands.

Those were anxious days for the womenfolk. All supplies had to be brought in from the coast, and the wagons were months on the way. Sometimes they would be gone for nearly a year and during all this time the women never knew but that some hostile native tribe had overwhelmed the devoted burghers and killed all their men. Dogged, dauntless, and determined, the men won through time after time, until there broke out the great war fomented by Maleuw, king of the Makateese. He was known as "The Lion" and was a very able savage, brave, cunning, and a born leader of men.

Maleuw became obsessed with the idea that the white men should be driven out, and with this object provoked a war with Jafta, king of the Mapors. It seems that Jafta, although he had been carrying on his private feud against the white men, did not care to join Maleuw and refused to aid him. The Makateese were the most warlike nation at that time, probably owing to the inspiration of "The Lion," and they swept down on the Mapors with the expressed intention of exterminating them.

The war was most sanguinary. No prisoners were taken, and it soon began to look as though the Mapors would be wiped out. The white men made no effort toward peace, taking the view that the more of their enemies were killed the safer life would be for them. Soon Jafta and his troops were in full flight, and then the white men found themselves facing another and more real danger. With Maleuw victorious he could rally additional armies, and this meant he would be powerful enough to drive the white men out and probably kill most of them.

Under my father, Slim Gert O'Neil, a council of war was called at Rietvlei and the leading Boers and some of the British settlers attended. Chiefs of the Basuto and Swazi nations were sent for, and it was decided to save the remnants of the Mapor nation and in so doing break the power of "The Lion" and his Makateese armies. Umbandine was king of Swaziland at that time.

King Maleuw found himself attacked by a large army made up of Boers, British, Basutos, Mapors, and Swazis, and there were several fierce battles. In some manner the Makateese had obtained a number of rifles and there was much loss of life on both sides. This war ended with the utter crushing of Maleuw and his army, and since then the Makateese have never threatened the peace of the Transvaal. The final battle was the storming of Maleuw's kraal, which was a veritable fortress on the top of a steep hill about five hundred feet high.

The hill is now known as "Maleuwkop," in memory of the old "Lion." It was practically impregnable to a native army using only savage weapons. The "palace" proper was on the top of the hill and was entirely surrounded by walls of thorn trees and prickly-pear cactus. These thorn trees are most formidable, the thorns being about three inches long and sharp as needles. The Boers call them "haakensteek," which is translated into "catch-and-stick." The British call them "wait-a-bit" thorns, and under either name they are equally dangerous.

Outside the thorn wall there was a row of huts in which the picked warriors of Maleuw lived. Below the huts came another thorn wall and another row of huts. There were eight or ten such settlements, each guarded by its own wall. I have heard many tales of the battle, which lasted all day. Finally the white men broke through the various thorn walls, and that was the end of the Makateese peril. My father in telling of the fight has often said, "If we had had one field-gun--only a little one--we could have blown 'The Lion' out of his lair and saved many lives."

Shortly after this war I was born at Rietvlei. I was the youngest of ten sons and spent my entire childhood without white playmates, except for my sister, Ellen, always my favorite. One of my earliest recollections is of seeing King Jafta when he paid ceremonial visits to my father. Under the conditions upon which the Boers agreed to help him against the Makateese, Jafta had ceded certain rich territories to Oom Paul Kruger. This land President Kruger sold to my father, who made an agreement with Jafta whereby the savage but now king-in-reduced-circumstances was allowed to remain in possession for a certain length of time. It was in connection with this agreement that Jafta would visit Rietvlei at certain intervals.

I was only a little child then, but I can remember the fallen king well. Owing to his lack of power he could not make much of a showing, but it was necessary that he maintain his kingly dignity on these visits. He would be accompanied by the last of his officers and a small impi, or regiment, and my father would treat with him exactly as though he were the powerful chief of former times. Jafta remembered this later and repaid us by giving us valuable assistance during the Boer War, at the time when the British were overrunning our lands.

The ceremonies attending Jafta's visits were always about the same. His courier would come ahead to announce his arrival, and my father would send word that he was pleased to see him and that his party should approach. Then Jafta, entirely naked except for an old silk hat my father had given him, would stride into the garden and when my father came out of the house would make an oration. My father would listen most respectfully and then would reply, always addressing the deposed king as "Nkoos," which has the same meaning to our kaffirs as "Your Majesty the King" has to the average Britisher.

The silk hat was very important in Jafta's eyes. It meant much more than a mere personal adornment. My father always wears silk hats, even when traveling about the farm, and Jafta attached much significance to the one he wore and always guarded it most carefully. In fact, one of the greatest honors he could confer on any of his officers was to make one of them official guardian of the hat when he was not wearing it. This was the savage conception of the coveted post of "Keeper of the Crown Jewels" that is found in some present-day monarchies.

However, Jafta finally came on more evil days. Owing to certain outside influences which were brought to bear upon him and to which he acceded, it became necessary to take severe measures, and he and his small band of followers were removed from the territory my father had loaned them. This was rather sad, because this land had been the site of the royal kraal of the Mapors since time immemorial.

Nevertheless, we have continued to employ Mapors on the farm and have a number of families there now. My old nurse was a Mapor woman. She was faithfulness personified, and I led her a merry dance. Her only garment was a loin cloth made of a duiker skin, and on account of her scant clothing my older brothers nick-named her "Jass," which means "overcoat." Jass was the mother of several little Mapors, the scars on her forehead showing their number. Like all the other savages in the Transvaal, the Mapors practice scarification to a great extent. The women are scarred either on the forehead or breasts, while the men are entitled to a scar on the forehead for each enemy they have killed.

Until I was sent to boarding-school in Grahamstown, that is, until I was well into my teens, my only companions were little kaffir boys. My best pal was Sibijaan, whose name means "The Skunk," and even today he is my body servant when I am at home. How we came to possess him is illustrative of conditions in the district surrounding Rietvlei.

Sibijaan and two other little kaffirs were brought to our home early one morning by a neighbor of ours who had captured them on our property. It seems they belonged to some tribe that had recently been wiped out by the Zulus and had been fleeing north to get away from the death that caught their people. I have never seen so miserable a trio as these poor little natives. They were almost starved and were unutterably dirty. In addition, they were in a state of most pitiable terror. They regarded the white men with bulging eyes and seemed only to want a place to hide.

Since they had been captured on our farm, they belonged to us. My mother was at home at the time, and the neighbor and she had a pretty argument as to the disposal of the captives. I listened to all of it, keeping one eye on the little boys and wondering how I would feel if I were in their place.

Finally my mother agreed that the neighbor should have the largest of the three, since he was big enough to be of some use in herding cattle and sheep. The two little fellows were to belong to us, and subsequent events proved that we had much the best of the bargain. The one taken by our neighbor soon escaped, while our captives quickly became devoted to us and are with us yet. The elder of the two was Sibijaan, and my mother gave him to me for my own servant and playmate. Several of my brothers happened to be spending a few days at the farm at this time and they gave Sibijaan his name. Dick did the naming when he said, "The little nigger would make a skunk blush with envy. Let's call him The Skunk!"

Sibijaan and I soon had definite tasks assigned to us. On a Boer farm no one rests--all have their work, even to the women and children. We were sent out to mind the sheep, of which my father had thousands, and were given about a dozen other little kaffirs as assistants. I was about seven years old at this time, big and strong for my age.

During those years there was a great lack of traders in our section of the Transvaal. This was due to the continuous wars in which the native tribes fought one another and now and then raided a Boer farm. Traders had been killed and their goods stolen, and none ever stopped at the Valley of Reeds. This meant that my father had to outfit expeditions and make the long journey to the coast and back again, if we were to have any of the civilized necessities or luxuries.

Our neighbors would join in these expeditions, and often there would be a score of ox-wagons and several score Boers in the parties. I remember these expeditions well for many reasons--my mother used to spend anxious months during my father's absence and about this time there was an expedition which brought me my first pair of trousers. These, in turn, were the cause of my receiving an injury to one of my eyes from which I never fully recovered. My father had been away for seven months this time and we had begun to fear that hostile natives had attacked the caravan and done him some harm. Many and many such an outfit had been wiped out by the Zulus, Makateese, or other hostile tribes, and there never was any assurance that the few rifles of the Boers could stop the rush of the savage impis.

On this occasion Sibijaan and I were minding a small herd of sheep on the little plateau that overlooks the heart of Rietvlei. We were quite busy trying to drive the flock to a better feeding-ground when Sibijaan suddenly stopped and listened.

"Strangers coming!" he shouted. "I smell oxen and wagons. White men coming up the Rietvlei!"

We looked in the direction he indicated and saw a cloud of dust creeping along the rough road. A second later a man in a silk hat, riding a familiar horse, emerged from the dust. Even at that distance I could see the rifle across his saddle. It was Slim Gert O'Neil, my father.

Sibijaan and I, followed by all the other little kaffirs, raced to the wagons, where my father swung me on his horse and greeted me most affectionately. A few moments later occurred the first really great event of my life--I received my first trousers! My father took me back to one of the wagons and presented me with a stout pair of corduroys. I was overjoyed and danced up and down, Sibijaan and the other little savages joining me, as though at a celebration. Now, I felt, at last I am a real white man, and the distance between my black playmates and myself seemed to become immense.

A little later I had slipped into the trousers and was proudly marching at the head of my little impi. We saw the wagons into the home kraal and then went back to our sheep. I was the hero of the hour among my playmates, and this led to the injury that has affected my eye ever since.

Sibijaan, who had always shared with me the leadership of our impi, lost caste when I donned the trousers and instinctively became the kaffir. This hurt him, and late in the afternoon he made me the following proposition:

"Klein Baas (meaning 'Little Boss')," he said, in his pathetic earnestness forgetting to address me by my native name, "Mzaan Bakoor," "you have been wearing the trousers all day. Don't you think it is my turn to wear them? We are both indunas (leaders) of our impi; it is not right that one should be better than the other. Let me wear the trousers until sundown and show our men that we are brothers-in-arms!"

This seemed reasonable to me. Sibijaan and I had shared our joys and woes for several years and there was no reason for my refusing him the honor of wearing the wonderful corduroys. We changed. I put on his beads and he got into my corduroys. Then came a perfect exhibition of the kaffir temperament. Sibijaan became insufferably arrogant. He gave orders to our impi, and for a moment I thought he was going to try and command me. The more he lorded it over the others, the more sullen and angered they became.

Of course the inevitable happened. Several of the little lads demanded that they be allowed their turn at wearing the trousers, the badge of authority, as it were. Sibijaan refused.

"No, no, you cannot wear them!" he shouted. "Now I am a man; I am almost white! I am a man and you are little boys! Who am I that I should take notice of such dirt?"

But he did. This last insult was too much. The indignant lads attacked Sibijaan, and in a second there was a squirming mass of black legs, arms, and bodies, with my precious trousers in danger of destruction. We all had assegais, or short stabbing spears, and regardless of these I dashed into the melee. Death or wounds were little things compared to the loss of those trousers.

When the fight was over I had been stabbed in the eye, but I had the trousers! Practically every boy had at least one wound, and one of the little fellows died before we got him back to the house where he could have attention. Owing to lack of proper medical care my eye was allowed to get well without expert attention and will always show the effects of this trouser-fight. From then on, however, I wore the trousers.

I shall always remember my father's comment on this happening. He asked me how the row had started and who had stabbed the boy to death. It was practically impossible to determine the latter, and I explained why. He listened in his quiet way and then gave me a talking to.

"Yours is the guilt for the death of that boy," he said. "You forgot you were a Boer and lowered yourself to the level of a Mapor! When you gave Sibijaan the trousers you became as the dirt under his feet. White men wear clothes; kaffirs go naked. Does my son, the son of Slim Gert O'Neil, want to be a nigger?"

Only in one other way did Sibijaan threaten my supremacy as the undisputed leader of our impi. This was due to his extraordinary knack in handling clay in the making of models of all kinds.

Not far from the house, along the bank of the river, there was a large clay-bank. I established a toy factory there and we made all sorts of clay toys, including idols, oxen, horses, and models of everything we handled in our daily life. To make it a contest Sibijaan and I, with our followers, used to compete with Klaas and his in the excellency of our models. My sister, Ellen, was the judge. Klaas, by the way, was the other little kaffir who was captured at the same time our neighbor brought Sibijaan to us.

Klaas would make a number of things, and his followers would duplicate them. Then he would challenge us to do better, and we would get to work. Many and many a day we spent in this toy factory, and the competition was keen. Soon, however, Sibijaan began to outstrip all of us in the excellency of his models. He was so much better at the play than I was that I soon found myself ashamed to place my models against his.

I found myself again in danger of losing caste and soon hit upon an idea that saved my face. Now the Boers are a deeply religious people. In our home we always had morning and evening prayers and the fact that we were scores of miles from the nearest church was the only reason that we did not attend one. Not long before the toy factory began to be a sore spot with me, a minister of the Dutch church had visited Rietvlei. He was visiting the outlying districts of the Transvaal and performing marriages and christenings. Naturally, the minister held services, the most interesting part being the sermon. He spoke with great force and many gestures, all of them most emphatic. Like all the Boers, he was bearded and had shaggy brows. I found his sermon most entertaining, although I understood little of what he said.

However, the sermon gave me an idea. I decided I would be a minister and the very next day commenced preaching. There was a ruined kraal, formerly the residence of a long-dead cannibal chief, on a little hill near home. I summoned Sibijaan, Klaas, and all the others of our impi to attend services there, and then proceeded to deliver a loud harangue to them. As I spoke in Dutch, with now and then a Mapor phrase, they did not understand much of what I said, but I made up for this by my forceful delivery. The natives are never more happy than when delivering an oration, the words illustrated with full-arm gestures, and I found my audience most appreciative. Religious services as I conducted them appealed to the savage mind, and Sibijaan's superiority as an artist faded to nothing.

Shortly after the minister's visit, my uncle, Oom Tuys Grobler, came to stay with us for a time. He had come from Swaziland and brought wondrous tales of battles there. I do not remember what war was going on, but Oom Tuys made us believe that war was the chief occupation of the Swazis. He used to while away the long evenings by telling me about King Buno and his mother, Queen Labotsibeni. To my childish mind Buno appeared as the embodiment of all things savage and ruthless, while his mother was not much better. I was fired with the desire to visit Swaziland and see the great King Buno, and I asked Oom Tuys to take me with him on his next trip. He did not refuse, but tried to discourage me by relating weird stories of how white boys were sacrificed and eaten by the Swazi warriors. These tales did not impress me very much, since I felt that I would be safe with my uncle, who was known throughout the Transvaal as the only Boer King Buno trusted.

These tales of battle inspired Sibijaan, Klaas, and myself with military ardor, and soon we prepared to play the game of war. This was only the play of little black boys led by a white, but out of it came my native name. I am called "Mzaan Bakoor" by all the natives of our section of the Transvaal. The name means "He of the Great Ears," or "He Who Hears Everything." How I earned the name illustrates our method of warfare.

Klaas would lead one force, and Sibijaan and myself the other. Our weapons were long reeds and pellets of clay. The pellets would be fixed on the end of the reed and thrown with a full-arm swing. They would travel like a stone from a sling, and after a short time we became very proficient in their use. We could hit our target more times than not, and I well remember that one of these clay pellets made a dangerous missile.

The battle would start at long range, and sometimes would continue for hours before we got to grips. When we were satisfied with the long-range execution, we would rush together and attack one another with our hands. Sibijaan invented the method followed in this close-range fighting. Adversaries would pair off, each grasping the other by the ears. Then would ensue an ear-pulling match which was only decided when one of the warriors cried quits. Because I seemed able to stand any amount of this torture, they called me "Mzaan Bakoor," and the name has been mine ever since. This method of ear-pulling was another tribute to Sibijaan's cunning, for both his ears had been bitten off in the trouser-fight and it was practically impossible for any one to hang on to the remains!

In addition to herding the sheep, we boys were in charge of a herd of about two hundred little calves. Our chief work with these was to prevent them getting to their mothers, the milch cows of the farm. Each morning and evening the calves were allowed to spend half an hour with their mothers, but the rest of the time they had to go without milk.

Milking time was always a busy period for us. The cows were kept in kraals, or open enclosures, and each morning we would have to catch them for the milkers. This was done with a rope-loop on the end of a long stick. When the cow was captured the rope would be passed around a post, the cow being drawn in and securely tied. The suckling calf was then brought to its mother, and this soothes the animal. As soon as the cow was quiet, her hinds legs and tail were tied together and she was ready for milking.

The milker would get ready, and then we would have to drive the calf away and keep it away with a long stick until the milking was finished. It was all a primitive and strenuous performance, but these Afrikander cattle are very wild and cannot be handled.

Another busy period for us would be during the sheep-shearing season. The sheep are divided into lots and classes, being ear-marked, and it used to be our work to keep them together and make ourselves generally useful. Another duty which fell to us was the leading of the ox-teams, for, in fact, the boys of my impi could be used for every service not requiring the strength of a man.

During all these busy boyhood days I lived practically the outdoor life of a savage. My early education was given me by my mother and my father's private secretary, an Englishman with a university training. I was quick to learn my lessons, chiefly because success meant speedy escape to the wild pastimes of the little savages who were my companions. Practically all our sports had to do with war and the hunt, so that I grew up to regard death as only an incident in the life of a warrior and not an event to be feared or worried about.

However, on my first visit to Buno, then king of Swaziland, I saw death in a form that shocked me by its needless brutality and utter wastefulness.