"What did you tell him?" my father asked, glancing at Tuys keenly. Father remembered the days of Buno, when ugly rumors used to float out concerning Tuys's activities in Swaziland.
"I told him to go to hell," Tuys exclaimed, "or I would come with many rifles and send him there!"
Inasmuch as Umzulek could have no conception of what my uncle meant by "hell", since the Swazis have no such place in their daily thought, it is safe to assume that Tuys was using a figure of speech. Nevertheless, he gave Umzulek to understand that it would be unhealthy for him to start a row along the border.
We were still living in Belfast when the war came toan end. Our home at Rietvlei was in ruins and it was almost a year before my father was able to get a portion of it rebuilt. However, before returning there we lived for a time in Potchefstroom, where my father had interested himself in some gold properties. Prospecting was always fascinating to him and he was usually successful in these ventures.
His English secretary remained in Belfast, safe-guarding his interests there and making frequent visits to the homestead in the Valley of Reeds. Our kaffir farmers and servants had been widely scattered by the war, but soon began to drift back. Each told a different tale of his wanderings, and many of these were quite harrowing. A number of our people had escaped to Jafta's kraal and not a few had gone into Swaziland until the war ended.
Klaas, our old jockey and one of my dearest playmates, had disappeared during the second year of the war, but one day my father told me that he had returned to Rietvlei. Father was about to make one of his periodical trips to Belfast and the Valley of Reeds, and he promised to bring Klaas back with him to Potchefstroom.
He drove out to Rietvlei from Belfast and found Klaas very glad to see him. The little fellow was thin and worn-looking, but scrupulously clean. Father installed him again as his driver and next day started back for Potchefstroom. A mile or so from the old house father got out of the wagon to inspect a plantation.He was about seventy-five yards from the wagon when a threatening thunder-storm broke and a single bolt of lightning killed Klaas and both horses! This was a great blow to all of us, because we had come to regard the little black boy with genuine affection.
Not long after we returned to Rietvlei—such a happy homecoming as it was!—my father decided the time had come for me to get an education. Many of the old Boers frowned upon the thought of sending their sons abroad to be educated, feeling that they would never care to return to the farms their ancestors had founded in the wilderness with such bravery and determination. My father, however, was different. He believed that his sons should be abreast of the times, and he sent me to boarding-school and later to universities in Scotland and America, where I received my training as a physician.
Back to Rietvlei from Harvard—I locate in Ermelo—Tuys brings news that Sebuza is to be crowned king of Swaziland—I decide to make a picture record of the coronation—The trek to Zombode to get the royal permission—Snyman plays ghost and almost gets killed—Visit to Mbabane, capital of Swaziland.
Back to Rietvlei from Harvard—I locate in Ermelo—Tuys brings news that Sebuza is to be crowned king of Swaziland—I decide to make a picture record of the coronation—The trek to Zombode to get the royal permission—Snyman plays ghost and almost gets killed—Visit to Mbabane, capital of Swaziland.
Soon after my graduation from Harvard University I returned to the Transvaal. I had been away for years and it was good to get back to the Valley of Reeds. Years in Scotland and the United States had left their stamp on me, and my family and old friends chaffed me about being an "outlander," telling me that now I was an American. I may have had some of the externals, such as the clothing I had had made in Cambridge, but my heart was still the heart of a Boer and I was glad to get back to my own people.
Father was proud to have a son who was a physician and arranged a reception at Rietvlei to which all his friends and acquaintances came. I was the hero of the hour, and it seemed strange when Tuys and some of the old men who had known me as a boy called me "Mzaan Bakoor." I had not heard my native name for years, and it brought back my boyhood and the little playmates of the toy-factory days.
Sibijaan was a grown man and a fine figure of a savage. He greeted me with effusiveness and saluted me native-fashion as soon as we had shaken hands.Father told me that he had been very useful about the house and was well trained. Then he told me that Sibijaan belonged to me and was to go with me wherever I went. When I spoke of this to my old playmate, he was surprised that I should mention it.
"Nkoos, what the ou baas says is so," he said. "I have never thought it would be otherwise. When we were children your mother gave you into my charge. Now that you are a man and I am a man, again I take up the trust!"
This suited me. I realized I would have to have some dependable boys and I knew that Sibijaan was faithful, honest, and more intelligent than any kaffir I had ever met.
Meeting Tuys again brought back the several visits we had made to Swaziland, and I asked him how things had gone with our friends, the royal family. He said that the old arrangement was still in effect and that Umzulek had settled down for good and was behaving himself.
"Queen Labotsibeni is blind now, but she still rules as regent," he said, "and Tzaneen is taking good care that no harm comes to her son, Sebuza. This young savage is growing into a man and already has gathered about him several impis. He is an insolent cub and will be hard to manage when he becomes king. As the crown prince he is running wild, and it seems he has been impertinent to the British Resident at Mbabane."
Tuys then told me that he expected to make a shorttrip to Lebombo and Zombode and asked me if I wanted to go along. My father, however, seemed to think I had "better get over that foolishness" and settle down, so I told Tuys I would go with him some other time.
Next came the question where I was to practice medicine. There was a good doctor in Belfast, who was a friend of our family, and it was suggested that I join him. This, however, did not please me. I wanted to be "on my own" and make my own career. This delighted my father, and after some discussion we decided that I should locate in Ermelo.
This was a little town of about fifteen hundred whites and several thousand kaffirs, in the heart of a fine farming and grazing section in the southeast section of the Transvaal. It has an elevation of about a mile and is a delightful spot. However, I must admit that the fact that Ermelo is only a little more than fifty miles from the border of Swaziland finally decided my choice.
After a few weeks with my family I started for Ermelo. Instead of making an attempt to get there by rail, Sibijaan, Tuys, and I trekked overland and had a most delightful trip. Seldom a night but we met with friends of my father, and they always gave a warm welcome to "the O'Neil from overseas." It seems that these simple people had wondered over my absence, feeling that I would be too learned to ever want to associate with them again. They were intensely interested in the United States, and many an hour I spent telling them about its wonders. I happened to have pictures of NewYork among my dunnage, and I dug these out and showed them. Naturally, the towering "skyscrapers" were a most wonderful thing to these Boers, many of whom had never seen a building of more than two stories. I always remember the remark made by one bearded patriarch when he looked at the photograph of the Flatiron Building.
"This is a modern Tower of Babel," he said, pointing at the structure with a stubby forefinger. "These Americans must be good and religious people or God would throw down such a tower!"
When I explained to him that it was built of steel covered with stone and told him that there were many other greater buildings, he was impressed, but not astonished.
"If it is God's will, these Americans will conquer the world," he concluded.
I then told him that war had been forced on America and her armies were even then in France fighting the Germans. He knew a good deal about the war and was naturally an enemy of England, which meant that he was friendly to the Germans. The fact that America had been forced into the conflict carried great weight with him, however, and I had a feeling that his pro-Germanism was much weakened by this knowledge.
I quickly found a home in Ermelo and settled down to practice medicine. My work there was hard but interesting. Its chief delight was the fact that I spent most of my time outdoors. A round of visits soon meant thatI would be gone several days, spending most of the time in the saddle. Many trips could be made by motor, particularly the periodical ones to the mines, but most of my Boer patients lived where motors could not travel. Except for the mining companies which had appointed me their resident physician, my patients were all white people. The Boers are a hardy lot and hate to admit that they are ill. Hence, when I received a call to a Boer farm, I always expected the worst and was seldom disappointed.
Bit by bit my practice increased, and I began to regard Ermelo as my permanent home. There were a number of pleasant people there, both English and Boers, and we lived a very contented busy life. Sibijaan turned out to be a valuable servant and did everything for me that he could. Of course I made him head boy about my place, and he kept the other servants in good order and saw that all things went right.
Oom Tuys stayed with me frequently, and his visits were always welcome. He wandered about the Transvaal a great deal and was a source of information of all sorts. It was in December, 1918, that he brought me news that interested me deeply.
"I have come from Zombode," he said, "and there is hell to pay in Swaziland. Old Labotsibeni tells me that Tzaneen and her right-hand man, Lochien, are plotting to have Sebuza made king and are making preparations for his coronation. Lomwazi, who is a son of the old queen and acts for her, tells me that Labotsibeni willnot give up the throne. She will have to die if she does. As you know, it is the Swazi custom to sacrifice any ruler who loses the throne, and the old girl doesn't want to be killed.
"It looks to me as if there is going to be trouble. I talked to Lomwazi and his mother and told them it was the agreement that she was to remain regent until Sebuza came of age, and that the Boers and British both would protect her when the young man was made king. This seemed to reassure them, but I don't think Labotsibeni and her crowd want to lose control. Yes, Owen, I think there is going to be trouble in Swaziland."
We talked the matter over, and I agreed with him that things were going to happen soon in Swaziland. The Swazis had been at peace too long a time for such a warlike nation and it would not take much to start a war of some sort. The fact that Prince Sebuza was to be made king stood out above everything else, and I made up my mind to see the ceremonies.
About this time I had become interested in the cinematograph. Moving-pictures were a hobby of mine, and it suddenly occurred to me that it would be a fine thing from an historic and educational standpoint to take some reels of Sebuza's coronation. Tuys told me that this would probably be the last affair of its kind, and it seemed to me that a cinematograph record of it would be most valuable and instructive.
I suggested this to Oom Tuys, and he agreed with me.
"But you'd better arrange to take the pictures," he cautioned me. "It would be just a waste of time to rush into Swaziland with a camera and take a chance. We don't know when the coronation is going to take place, and what's more, we don't know that the Swazis would stand for your taking pictures of it. The witch-doctors might tell them that you were putting some sort of a curse on them, and then where would you be?"
This put another light on the matter, and Tuys finally advised me to see Labotsibeni and get her permission to film the ceremonies when Sebuza was made king. I was afraid that I might not be able to get what I wanted from Labotsibeni, so I asked Tuys to help me. This he agreed to do, arranging to meet me in Zombode. This meant quite a trip for him, because the British objected to his going into Swaziland, owing to certain activities there in the past, and he had to go in through Portuguese territory. I have forgotten what reasons the government had for not wanting Tuys to visit Swaziland, but the officials evidently had not forgotten—Britishers seldom do, particularly when the matter affects one of their principalities.
So it was arranged that Tuys should slip into Swaziland through Komatipoort, a town on the border between Portuguese East Africa and Labotsibeni's country. I was to leave as soon as I could, and we would meet at Zombode and there transact our business with Lomwazi and the old queen.
I arranged for another doctor to handle my patientswhile I was away and then set about making preparations for the trip. News of my venture soon got about, and I was deluged with requests to take friends along. If I had given in to them all, I would have invaded Swaziland with an impi. As it was, I took Laurie Snyman, a cousin of mine, and Joel Biddy, the accountant of the little bank in Ermelo. Snyman had some years before been postmaster at Mbabane, the government seat of Swaziland, while Biddy had been a useful friend on many occasions.
We had some interesting adventures on the trip, but suffered intensely from the weather. Heavy storms dogged us all the way and made life miserable. We traveled light, but the rains prevented us making good time. Our outfit consisted of a wagonette, drawn by mules, in which we had intended to ride. Sibijaan was our cook and general handy man, while the mules and wagonette were in charge of Tuis, a half-breed Basuto bushman.
The rains made the roads so heavy that it was all the mules could do to drag the wagonette. Hence we had to walk practically the entire way, and it was "foot-slogging" of the hardest. Tuis was a very obstinate kaffir and made a nuisance of himself on every opportunity. If we had not needed him so badly, I would have either killed him or sent him back.
One of the features of the trip was the fact that both Sibijaan and Tuis were constantly ill. That is, they said they were. The only medicine which seemed to helpthem was gin, and they would frequently feign illness to get some. Now and then I would refuse, and then Tuis would give an exhibition of sulking that was wonderful. Of course it is strictly against the law to give alcohol to kaffirs in the Transvaal, but the fact that it was administered as "muti," or medicine, made the act less criminal. Those boys of mine, however, needed "muti" frequently, but the rain was a sort of justification, for I know that we white men were only able to keep going by using it.
On the second day out of Ermelo we ran into the Scottish section of our country. The little villages there have such names as Lochiel and New Scotland, and the people are quite as Scottish as these names. In fact, we were able to get some oat cakes at one of the farm-houses. These would have been rusks, had the people been Boers.
Although our trek had been miserable enough so far, we did not have any real trouble until we reached the Masuto River. It was swollen by the heavy rains and the ford was washed out. Instead of the usual clear rivulet, it had become a raging torrent of muddy water. We had to cross it or go back, so we made camp on its bank and held a council of war. All our blankets and supplies were soaked through, and a fire could not be started. We were just about as uncomfortable as we could be.
Just when we were beginning to despair, a Scotch civil engineer showed up. He was building a bridgeover the Masuto, his entire working force consisting of kaffirs. He proved a cheerful person and made light of our troubles. This was well enough for him, since he had a good camp a short distance away, while we were marooned on a desert of dampness. I suggested to him that we would appreciate some hot tea or coffee, but he carefully refrained from inviting us to his camp to have some. Instead, he told us that we could get what we wanted from Oom Van der Merwe, who had a farm not far distant. The Scotch are a careful and canny people!
We trudged over to the Boer farm and received a cordial welcome. They received us with open arms and insisted that we remain there for a few days, or at least until the rain stopped. This we could not do, since I had made the Zombode appointment with Tuys and did not want him to have to wait so long that he would give us up and leave Swaziland.
The farmer's womenfolk gave us all the hot coffee we would drink, and then supplied us with bread, butter, milk, and the hind quarter of a sheep. We returned to our thoroughly soaked camp very reluctantly and passed a most miserable night.
Next morning we tackled the problem of getting across the Masuto, which had risen further during the night. The Scotch engineer came to our assistance with good advice, and this is all he would have offered had I not discovered that he had several cables stretched across the river. After much argument he agreed tolet us use one of the cables to get the wagonette and supplies across. This was done, although with great difficulty.
Knowing we would have to swim for it, we white men had put our clothes in the wagonette. The kaffir boys did not wear enough to matter. The Scotchman consoled us by telling us that we were a ludicrous sight, and we must have been! There we stood, naked, cold, and disgusted, our entire possessions on the far bank and facing the prospect of swimming the turbulent river, driving the mules across at the same time. However, it had to be done, so we plunged in. The current was strong and we crawled ashore a full half mile below the wagonette.
True to his bastard breed, one of the mules turned back in midstream and proceeded calmly to the take-off bank of the river. We had to swim back and get him, but it was adding insult to injury when he tried to run away and we had to chase him through the long grass and undergrowth of the river's edge. Finally we captured the brute and then swam the river for the third time as his watchful escort.
We were dead tired when we reached the wagonette and faced the stiff climb to the top of a little mountain. The road was in the worst possible condition, so we decided to camp for a day or two until the weather became better. As things were, we could not have gone on, anyway.
As soon as camp was pitched, we looked about a bitand discovered the ruins of an old Boer farm-house a little way up the river. There was a trickle of smoke coming out of the chimney and this encouraged us to visit the place as soon as possible. The thought of fire was heartening; it meant hot things to drink and possibly warm food. When I came close to it I saw that there were two rooms, badly roofed over, but the blackened walls showed that the old house had been quite an imposing building.
My knock was answered by a young Boer with wild, hunted eyes. He looked us over as we stood there in the pouring rain, and a moment later smiled graciously and invited us in. When the door closed he ceremoniously extended his hand and we shook hands all around.
"Strangers seldom come during the storms," he said, "and I was surprised to hear your knock. I was cooking some coffee in the back room and now I shall add enough for all of us."
This was a welcome thought to us, and in a little while our drooping spirits were revived by the hot drink. Then we cooked the food we had brought with us and had a merry party. It seems the young fellow was quite bucked up over having visitors and he did well by the gin we had brought with us.
But still it rained outside! It came down as it only can in the Transvaal, and that means a steady, relentless downpour which looked as though it would last for days. We decided to make ourselves as comfortable as possible, and our host insisted that we take over hishouse. He was a very pleasant fellow and before long we were good friends.
It seems that the old house had been the home of his parents and grandparents. It was a pioneer homestead and had been burned by the British during the Boer War. Both his parents had died there and the place had never been rebuilt. He had been born in the room in which we rested and he told us that he hoped some day to rebuild and make his thousands of acres profitable.
Bit by bit we got the story of the place from him. It had been destroyed in retaliation for some act of treachery, for which, he assured us, his parents were not responsible. I asked him if he did not get lonesome living there by himself and suggested that he ought to get a wife to keep him company. My question opened up a queer side of his character, and then we understood the hunted look in his eyes.
"By day," he said slowly, "I don't mind being here alone. In good weather people cross the river and come to me to buy things. I have a store, you know, and sometimes as many as five or six come each week."
This was news to us. We did not see any evidence of a store, but this probably explained the small boxes and bundles in the back room.
"It is the night that is terrible," he went on, lowering his voice as though afraid of being overheard. "Those who died here come back and look into the windows and cry out with awful voices. They cannot rest, andmust come back to this place where they were killed. Some of them are our people and others the British, and sometimes they fight the battle over again!"
For a moment I thought he was guying us, but a glance at his eyes told me that he was in deadly earnest. Snyman and Biddy caught his spirit and egged him on to tell more ghost stories. Now the ignorant Boer is very superstitious, so that it was not long before we had all kinds of ghosts loose about the place. The young Boer took the stories seriously, and those two rascals soon had him quite terrified. A sudden burst of thunder made him jump as though he had been shot.
Well, we told ghost stories and tales of other supernatural visitations for some time. Then, the rain letting up a bit, we went back to our camp, to find that Sibijaan had finally succeeded in getting a fairly decent fire going. Before leaving we had bought the store out. It only contained quantities of "flag" cigarettes, coffee, and yellow sugar, but we took all we could get. The Boer assured us that he had sent to Ermelo for a large stock of goods which would be at our disposal as soon as the roads allowed it to be brought in.
Late that afternoon it looked as though the stormy weather was breaking away, and this cheered us up. We planned to start at dawn next morning and make up for lost time by forced marches. Shortly after dark Snyman announced that he was going to visit the young Boer again. He went out, leaving Biddy and me smoking our pipes in the tent.
Snyman had been gone for about half an hour when the stillness of the night was shattered by a succession of rifle shots. They came from the direction of the ruined house. We could hear some one shouting, also, and each outburst was followed by more shots.
With one motion I snuffed our candle and dived to the wet floor of the tent. Biddy was almost as quick, and swore softly when his face hit my heels. We neither of us could imagine what was taking place, but our training taught us that the ground was the safest place when people began shooting wildly.
We had hardly got our breath when Snyman dashed into the tent, falling over us and almost pulling it down. He had been running hard and was fairly gasping for breath. Presently he recovered sufficiently to loose a volley of profanity in Dutch and English. When he calmed down a little—the shooting had stopped by this time—we asked him what all the shooting was about and why he had returned in such haste.
"Why, that poor ignorant fool thought he could shoot a ghost!" he said, beginning to laugh. "I went to see if there were any ghosts around his old house, and when I didn't find any, I felt that he ought not to be disappointed, so I played ghost for him. I sneaked about the house and hid in the old ruins, making all sorts of creepy noises, I must have scared him until he went crazy.
"I was just beginning to enjoy myself when his light went out. Then I thought I had scared him off themap. But I was wrong, very wrong! He must have opened the door quietly, for when I started out of the ruins he opened up with his Mauser. I dropped flat, but it seemed to me that a volley of bullets crawled down my back. A moment later he started shooting in another direction, and then I got up and ran. I'll bet the springbok doesn't live that could have caught me!"
So this was the explanation of the sudden firing. We examined Snyman and found that two bullets had gone through his coat, showing that even in his fear the young fellow had shot like a true Boer. Snyman did not seem much upset over being shot at, but was quite indignant at the fact that the "ghost hunter" had used a rifle.
"It just shows the ignorance of these back-country Boers," he said, ruefully examining his torn coat. "This damned fool spends his nights quaking because he thinks his old farm is full of ghosts, and then he takes down the ancestral rifle and goes out and tries to kill them. As though he could shoot a ghost!"
Before dawn the next morning the young Boer arrived at our camp. While he was taking coffee with us he related his adventure of the night before. He seemed to have no suspicion of Snyman, who must have done a wonderful job. According to his story a whole battalion of British ghosts had attacked his stronghold. He described their wailing and threatening cries, andthen told how he had finally driven them off with his father's rifle.
He was so earnest and pathetic that we all felt sorry for him. His ignorance was extraordinary, even when his isolation was considered. We were sorry to leave him, and I remember looking back as we climbed the hill road to see him looking wistfully after us.
The roads were so bad that we had to walk, and it was not until the third day that we reached Mbabane, the official capital of Swaziland. This is about fifteen miles over the border, and the village is on the top of a low mountain. Mbabane is the new capital of Swaziland and was founded in 1904. The old capital, Bremersdorp, was destroyed by our people during the Boer War.
The long slopes leading up to the village are nearly all covered with plantations, which have been laid out by Robert L. Dickson, head of the Swaziland Trading Company. The settlement is a most picturesque and charming place, and there are a number of pleasant English people dwelling there. These white families live very well, and I can safely say that Mbabane is the most delightful place in that whole section of the Transvaal.
Mr. Dickson is a remarkable character who has lived in South Africa practically all his life. He is now about sixty-five years old, and no visit to Mbabane is complete without at least one cup of tea with him and his wife. Mrs. Dickson is a lovable old lady whose chief worriesseem to consist of guarding her vegetable plantation and finding her glasses.
The morning we called on Mr. Dickson, she came in and asked if he had seen those errant glasses. His eyes twinkled when he answered, "No, my dear, but I'm sure you'll find them in the cabbage patch!" She had been there during the morning and his guess was correct, for one of the black boys found the glasses draped over a young and hopeful cabbage.
Of course Mr. Dickson invited us to dinner, and this led to a typical and amusing incident. Mrs. Dickson ordered her cook to prepare some chickens for the meal, and the cook sent some of the Swazi servants to get the fowls.
Now a friend of mine, John Pythian, engineer at the tin mines nearby, lived next door to the Dicksons. He was a chicken fancier and had some very fine birds. As luck or indolence would have it, Mrs. Dickson's servants caught some of his chickens instead of her own. Pythian's servant reported this to him—he was still in bed at the time—and he instructed his boy to tell Mrs. Dickson's Swazis to return the chickens.
Stronger in courage than judgment, the boy attacked the enemy and there was a battle. It was short, however, because Mrs. Dickson heard the row and chased Pythian's boy away. By the time he reported to his master, the chickens were slain. Pythian then sent his boy to get the native police, and these soon arrived.
Mrs. Dickson protested and argued that her boyswere innocent, but about this time, Mr. Honey, British Royal Commissioner for Swaziland, came on the scene in all his majesty. He held an impromptu court and heard both sides of the case. After deliberation, in which we all tried to assist him, he delivered his verdict.
"From the evidence I judge that Mrs. Dickson's boys are innocent in that they did not realize they were killing Mr. Pythian's chickens," he said. "However, the chickens have been killed on the order of Mrs. Dickson, so I think the only thing to do is to arrest Mrs. Dickson!"
Whereupon Mrs. Dickson became indignant and demanded that the commissioner carry out his sentence.
"If he does," she said threateningly, "I can guarantee that the High Commissioner for Swaziland is going to feel very low in his mind before I invite him to dinner again!"
Thus the chicken-stealing ended in a joke, and Pythian was one of the gayest at dinner that night. He remarked, however, that it was no wonder that the roast chicken was so choice, since the birds had been imported all the way from some place in India!
During the meal I sat next to the Commissioner and brought up the question of the crowning of the new Swazi king. I wanted to find out what the government thought about it before I made final arrangements at Zombode.
"There seems to be a difference of opinion regarding this pup, Sebuza," he said. "It looks as though theremight be a row either before or soon after he is made king. Of course he is the heir to the job, so there can be no good reason for keeping him out. However, Labotsibeni has been a steady old girl and has kept fairly good order around Zombode, and it's a shame we can't keep her. But she's over one hundred years old, and now Lomwazi seems to be fairly running Swaziland. Sebuza will have to be king some day, but it will be good policy to maintain present conditions as long as possible. We have peace now, and I'd dislike to see anything happen that might start a war."
I could see that the Commissioner was none too anxious to have Sebuza take over the throne. This suited me, for I knew that it would be some time before I was equipped with the right outfit to take the pictures I was after. If Sebuza's coronation could be put off for a year, it would suit me even better.
All the white residents of Mbabane treated us with the greatest kindness and hospitality. They could not do too much for us. There are a number of interesting things about the settlement. It is essentially a little English village set down in the heart of the most primitive and savage principality of the empire. Like all the rest of the English who exile themselves from home, these people had brought a little bit of the motherland with them.
The jail, or "gaol," as they insist on writing it, is an institution in Mbabane, but I must say there is not much punishment about it. The prisoners wear theconvict garb, but you meet them all over the village. They are usually working in the gardens, and I have often run across them three and four miles from their penitential abode. No prisoner has ever been known to escape; perhaps the regular food has something to do with this.
There are a number of interesting characters who live in Mbabane year in and year out. One of these is Allister Miller, a man of remarkable personality, energy, and business ability. He has several immense ranches and owns more than fifty thousand head of fine cattle. His bulls have been imported from all over the world and his cattle have made him a very rich man. Swaziland is an ideal stock-raising country and it is estimated that the Swazis themselves own more than three hundred thousand head of cattle.
Probably the most interesting character in Mbabane is known to every one as "Matt." He is an accountant by profession. His nose has made him famous, and I am sure there is not another like it in the whole world. It is immense in size and has all the vivid tints of the "rum-nose" that distinguishes the confirmed tippler. All strangers are advised to see Matt's nose or count their visit to Mbabane a rank failure.
There are a number of stories about him, one of the best being about his experience as an inmate of the gaol. It seems that he was accountant for a trading company and had made a mess of its books. Money was missing and he could not account for it. Althoughit was felt that he had not taken it, yet he was responsible and was sentenced to gaol for six months. Now the warden of the gaol trusted Matt and put him to work on the books. In addition, he used to loan Matt to do little jobs of carpentering and painting at houses in the village. This led to trouble. The little tin shanty, by courtesy "The Hotel," was much like some of the saloons in the "cow towns" of the old West in the United States. Ranchers, traders, and adventurers would congregate there and tell stories while they drank gin, whiskey, and combinations of the same. Matt was in the habit of passing the "hotel" each evening on his return to the gaol, and soon the roisterers began inviting him in to have a drink or two.
One night there was a particularly joyous party, and Matt drank so much that he forgot to return to the gaol on time. It was midnight before he got there, and the jailer had already gone to bed. Matt went to his house and woke him, and this annoyed the official very much. So much so, in fact, that he refused to get up and let Matt into the gaol. Matt was reduced to the ignominy of returning to the hotel and bunking there. Next morning he made a charge against the jailer for not allowing him to serve out his sentence! Commissioner Honey discharged him and reprimanded the jailer for neglect of duty.
Some years before Snyman had been postmaster at Mbabane and had made many friends, with the result that he had a most enjoyable visit. The morning weleft to continue our trek to Zombode he was approached by Manaan, an old Swazi chief, who wanted to shake hands with him. Manaan was a typical kaffir, and Snyman told me a story about him which well illustrates the characteristics of the breed.
"When I was at the post-office here," Snyman said, "Manaan and some of his sons went to the Transvaal to work in the gold mines. According to the law, their money was deposited for them in the savings-bank at Johannesburg, and the whole amount was put in the name of the old chief. I was still postmaster when Manaan and his sons returned to Swaziland.
"One morning I was very busy when I saw Manaan standing at the door. Of course he would not enter until I spoke to him. I grunted at the old boy and he came in, with the usual 'Nkoos!' and his hands flung up. He stood at the counter for a while, waiting for me to speak to him.
"Finally I asked, 'Ou funaan?' which means 'What do you want?'
"'Ou funa mali!' he answered, meaning 'I want some money.'
"Then the old boy walked over to the corner of the room and sat down. From the top of his majuba, or loin-cloth, he produced a little bundle wrapped in an abundance of dirty rags and tied with some leather thongs. Then he knelt down, as is the custom of the Swazis, and proceeded to spread out the contents of the bundle.
"When he unwrapped the outer cover there was another and yet another, the last covering being the hide of some small animal. After this was undone there was a paper wrapping, and inside this was his savings account deposit book! This he presented to me with pride.
"'Ou shiai intzinga; ou funa mali,' he said, which meant 'Telegraph to the place where this money is deposited; I want to draw it.'
"'Lunglli,' I replied; 'wati nalie e'lali bapa ou buia mfigo uti zouk mali,' which meant, 'When the sun is over there come back and I will give you the money.'
"I thought I would get a reply by sunset, and Manaan arrived promptly after I had heard from Johannesburg. He entered on my recognition, stacked his knob-kerrie, shield, and assegai in the corner, and came up to the counter.
"I counted out the money to him. There were twenty-four pounds, and ten shillings for interest. This I had to explain to him, and when he understood that it was a gift he spent the next ten minutes in praising the white men. He was so accustomed to being taxed and paying for everything that to get these extra ten shillings was a shock.
"Manaan then went over to his corner, knelt down, and counted the money over six or seven times. He would take it up, examine it, and put it down again and again. He seemed fascinated by the sovereigns. Finallyhe gathered it up and walked over to the counter. Piling it up in front of me, he said:
"'E'musla implea mene bonela e'begga panzi!' which means 'Very nice indeed! I have had a look at it; it is wonderful! Now please put it away again!'
"I felt like a fool. I had cancelled his account, and now the old nuisance wanted to re-open it and put his money in the bank again. But of course I did it. All Manaan wanted was to see and feel his money, so that he would be sure it was still there!"
I meet Labotsibeni again—Flattering a savage queen—Explaining the "little black magic box"—Curing rheumatism with tooth-paste, vaseline, and hair oil—Women as currency—Gin, gold, and cows pay for the picture rights—The "flu" strikes—Jennie, the "blaau app", and the peacocks' tails.
I meet Labotsibeni again—Flattering a savage queen—Explaining the "little black magic box"—Curing rheumatism with tooth-paste, vaseline, and hair oil—Women as currency—Gin, gold, and cows pay for the picture rights—The "flu" strikes—Jennie, the "blaau app", and the peacocks' tails.
From Mbabane it is only a short distance to the top of the mountain from which the descent is made into Ezulweni, the beautiful Valley of Heaven. As we reached the top I pointed out Sheba's Breasts and the Place of Execution to my companions. These peaks could be seen far off to the right, where the sun picked them out in the early morning mist.
Coming down the mountain was hard work, the grade being one in four at many places. We walked, because it would only have made it harder for the mules if we had kept our seats in the wagonette. At the bottom of the steep trail stands the place of Harry Niles, an old-time trader who has settled down there. He has a picturesque little home and has surrounded the house with banana trees, papayas, and semi-tropical fruits. Niles is a charming old man who retired from active business to live out his remaining years in this garden spot. He has no interest in outside affairs and lives an ideal existence, if one likes that sort of thing. His likes and dislikes are quickly expressed, and this is probably oneof the reasons that make him contented with his life of isolation. If he likes you, however, he can be more hospitable than any one I know. He will feed you with the most delicious salads, fresh meat, and other delicacies, and there is always something rare to drink. His salads are famous, so that his few friends in Mbabane often make the hard trek to his little home to share one of them.
Coming into the Valley of Heaven from Mbabane, instead of from Rietvlei, made it a much shorter distance to Zombode. We wanted to get there as soon as possible, since we had already been delayed by the wretched weather, so we only had a drink with Niles and then pushed on. He told me that he had heard that the Swazis were getting ready to acknowledge Sebuza as king, but he had no definite information about it.
"What's more," he added, "I don't give a damn! Just so long as these royal niggers keep out of my way I'll keep out of theirs. They know better than to bother me, and it makes no difference to me who is king!"
Shortly before we came in sight of Zombode, Oom Tuys came riding down the trail. A Swazi runner had brought word that we were coming, and my uncle had come out to meet me. I was very glad to see him and he was as cheerful as ever. He told me that he had had no difficulty in getting into Swaziland, as he had come in through Komatipoort, but he understood that word had gone to Mbabane that he was at Zombode and he wanted to cut his stay as short as possible.
"It is a shame that the great British Empire should hound one poor lone Boer trader," he said, his eyes twinkling, "and I feel very much afraid. I hate to disturb the peace of mind of the High Commissioner, so I don't want to stay here any longer than necessary."
Then he began to plan with me how to get our business over as quickly as possible. I had not been to Swaziland since my youth, and things were different now. Instead of our being met by a welcoming party of indunas, only a few curious savages and a horde of children came out to watch us arrive. The former proud formality of the royal kraal seemed lacking, and when I asked Tuys about it he explained that since Queen Labotsibeni had become blind "the old customs had gone to seed."
There was still one formality about seeing her, however. This consisted of announcing your presence by sending her a bottle of gin and then waiting until she sent for you. Tuys explained to me that the old queen was terribly vain and desired, above all things, to be flattered. She liked to pretend that she could still see, and Tuys warned me under no circumstances to admit that I thought she could not.
"You want to look out for Lomwazi, my boy," he added. "He has more brains than all the rest put together and is a very wily devil. He never leaves the side of the old queen, and she can't say a word that he doesn't hear. Look out for him!"
He also advised me to keep my eye on Debeseembie,a brother of Lomwazi and the favorite son of the old queen. Debeseembie was another faithful watchdog of the royal hut and was always somewhere around.
This was the first time I had seen Labotsibeni since I was a little boy, hence I was keenly interested in her apart from the fact that I hoped to obtain her permission to take pictures of Sebuza's coronation. It is well to observe here that I use the word "coronation" for lack of a better term. The Swazi king wears no crown, and I suppose the right but awkward phrase would be to speak of Sebuza's "induction as king."
Lomwazi came out to meet us as we entered the royal kraal and readily agreed to convey the gin-present to his royal mistress. When I slipped him a bottle for himself, his haughty expression immediately became one of joy. A little gin goes a long way with the Swazis.
In a very short time he returned and said that the queen would see us. In addition to the present sent ahead when an interview is desired with the queen, it is also proper etiquette to leave a present when the interview is over. Knowing this, I took along a present—that is, another bottle of gin.
Now the royal kraal at Zombode was built with a little kraal inside the main one, and in the middle of that was Labotsibeni's reception hall or audience chamber. This was the most unusual building in Swaziland. It had brick walls about four feet high and was about ten by fifteen feet in size. The arched grass roof was about head high in the middle, but one had to stoop low toenter, because the three openings were only the height of the brick wall. No one has ever explained how these bricks came to Zombode. There are no bricks in Swaziland and it struck me as extraordinary that I should see them there.
Lomwazi led us to the reception hut and we waited for him to announce us. I could see Labotsibeni lying on a mat in the center of the floor with a number of her women and warriors about her. She seemed very fat and huge, and very very old.
"Nkosikaas! All powerful Queen of Swaziland," Lomwazi chanted. "Oom Tuys and Mzaan Bakoor, great white indunas, have come to see you. They bring presents and would be overjoyed forever if you would look upon them and accept their great tribute!"
Some of this was true, but all of it was the proper sort of thing at Zombode. Labotsibeni listened intently, and when her vizier finished she spoke in her old cracked voice:
"Tell my white sons that I am proud to welcome them to Swaziland and will grant them an audience."
Thereupon we entered the hut. There were at least a dozen maids-of-honor attending the old queen, and several of these spread mats for us to sit on. Some of these women were working on freshly tanned hides from which they were fashioning skirts, and the odor of the skins tainted the air of the hut. I am accustomed to this smell and do not find it unpleasant, but both Snyman and Biddy soon had all of it they could stand.
The old queen lay on her stomach with her head propped up by her hands. Within easy reach was a pile of leaves, and at intervals she would take one of these, wipe her lips and fingers with it, and thrust it through the open doorway. Her hands were small and beautifully shaped and her nails were spotlessly clean and perfectly manicured. Later I learned that her maids spent hours taking care of her hands, their only tools for manicuring the royal nails being bits of broken bottle-glass.
Remembering Tuys's warning, I complimented her on her looks, beautiful hands, and the cleanliness of her hut and kraal. I told her that her royal abode was an example for all the other native kings of the Transvaal and generally explained to her what a superior person she was. She listened intently to my flattery and appreciated it greatly.
Near her was the bottle of gin we had sent ahead. It was more than half finished and she took a drink while I was delivering my flattering oration. She reached for the bottle and Debeseembie assisted her to get the drink by pouring out more than half an earthen mug full of the fiery liquid. With one swallow she gulped it down, and then almost choked. This gave me my cue, and I told her how moderate she was and how refined in her way of drinking gin.
"Why, Nkosikaas, if I were to give Jafta, king of the Mapors, a bottle of gin," I said, "he wouldn't stop drinking until he had finished it, and then he would soonbecome drunk. Whereas, you, with your royal daintiness and delicacy, drink your gin like a queen!"
This thought pleased her much and she thereupon took another drink, which practically emptied the bottle. Of course I do not know that she had consumed the first half of that bottle, but she certainly drank enough in our presence to intoxicate any normal person. It was strange, but it did not seem to have much effect on her. When she spoke and drank, I noticed that her teeth were perfect. This, at the age of more than one hundred years, is a great tribute to the Swazi custom of cleaning the teeth with charcoal or sand after each meal.
There was nothing private about our interview. While we talked indunas came and went and the women were always in the hut. In addition, both Lomwazi and Debeseembie were on hand all the time. After we had exhausted all our compliments and small talk, Tuys broached the subject of permission to take pictures of Sebuza's coronation.
Here we ran against what seemed to be an insuperable obstacle. It was impossible to make either the queen or Lomwazi understand what I wanted. They had no conception whatever of what a photograph meant and motion-pictures were entirely beyond their comprehension. Both Tuys and I tried in every way to make them understand, but it was hopeless. Finally I decided that the only thing to do would be to take a picture of Lomwazi or the old queen and show Lomwazi what I was talking about.
I persuaded him to get Labotsibeni to allow herself to be carried outside the hut into the sunlight, and there I took a picture of her. Then I photographed Lomwazi, Debeseembie, and a group of others. I explained to them that I would show them the pictures the next day, as I hoped to have them developed and printed by that time. After the picture-taking we went back inside the hut, and then the old queen became more friendly and told me her troubles. It seems she suffered with rheumatism in the shoulders and back. This was due to the fact that her upper body was usually bare and that she laid in the draught between the openings of the hut. When cold, she would cover herself with a magnificent fur rug, but this did not help her rheumatism much.
On hearing of her aches and pains, Tuys's evil genius gave him an inspiration and he proceeded to get me into a pretty pickle.
"Nkosikaas, you are in great good luck that we came to see you," he told her. "Mzaan Bakoor is a great white witch-doctor and makes the muti (medicine) that cures such pains as you have. He will make the muti for you and will cure you!"
Labotsibeni appeared much cheered by this suggestion. I was not, however. I had no medicines with me and would gladly have kicked Tuys for making the offer. Shortly after this we left the queen, with the understanding that I was going to make the medicinethat would cure her rheumatism and would bring it to her as soon as it was ready.
When we got back to our camp I blessed Tuys with a real Boer outburst of profanity.
"Why, Tuys, we'll make the old lady think that we are the worst sort of fakirs," I told him. "She won't grant me the right to take the pictures when she finds out that we have fooled her. You have made a fine mess of things!"
But Tuys laughed and laughed and laughed. He thought it was one of the funniest situations he had ever seen. Looking back at it, I can see the humor of it, but at that time I did not find it amusing. Tuys told me I would have to go through with it and produce medicine that would at least make his word good. So I went to work. All I had with me were some toilet necessities. The "muti" was compounded at length, and this is the way the prescription read: Two ounces each of tooth-paste, vaseline, and hair-tonic. These I beat up until they were a loose paste and then placed them in a glass jar bearing a very vivid label. This jar had held my photographic chemicals.
With impressive solemnity we returned and presented the muti to the queen. Then I explained the treatment. Her maids were to take cloth soaked in hot water and apply it to the aching parts until she could stand it no longer. Then small portions of the muti were to be thoroughly rubbed in until the pains departed.