Rebellie in Heilbron – Om Doodgeskiet Te Word, Of Nie?
Op die oggend van 23 Oktober 1914 het ’n man by my kantoor ingekom, die deur agter hom gesluit en in my oor gefluister dat David van Coller, die distrikskommandant, daardie nag met ’n sterk mag op pad was om die dorp namens generaal De Wet in te neem, en dat ek in my agterplaas doodgeskiet gaan word. Nadat hy van hierdie mondvol ontslae geraak het, het hy die deur oopgesluit en vinnig verdwyn.
Ek het generaal Smuts in Pretoria geskakel en hierdie inligting aan hom oorgedra. Ek het voorgestel dat ek vrywilligers bymekaar moet kry en so die plek verdedig. Hy het my besliste bevele gegee om niks van die aard te doen nie – as Van Coller daar aankom en ons skiet op sy manne, sal die Nasionaliste reg oor die land ’n keel opsit en sê dat ons die moeilikheid begin het. Hy het gesê dat hy nie daarvan hou om my in die steek te laat nie, maar dat hulle ook oproer in ander landsdele verwag, en dat ek vir myself moes sorg.
In die lig hiervan het ek geen rede gesien waarom ek ewe gedwee daar moes bly om deur my politieke opponente gevange geneem te word nie. Ek het nie geglo dat hulle my sou skiet nie, want van nature is die Boere nie geneig tot sluipmoord nie, maar in die hitte van langdurige geskille het ek baie vyande gemaak, en die minste wat met my sou gebeur, is arrestasie en vernederinge.
En so het ek besluit om liewer te ontsnap. Dit was vir my moontlik om vas te stel dat daar alreeds, onopsigtelik, brandwagte opgestel was op elke pad wat by die dorp uitgaan. ’n Ontsnapping helder oordag was dus buite die kwessie, en my enigste hoop was om in die donkerte van die nag weg te kom.
Intussen het ek voorgegee dat ek onbewus was van die moeilikheid op hande, en aandag aan my sake gegee tot vieruur die middag. Toe het ek huis toe gegaan en myself voorberei vir die ontvlugting, en Ruiter opdrag gegee om die perde gereed te kry. Ruiter was al jare lank saam met my. Hy was ’n Hottentot, klein van figuur met krom bene; die lelikste en lojaalste bediende wat ’n mens kan wens om te hê. My perd was ’n volbloed met die naam van Bismarck, een van die beste in die land, en Ruiter het ’n vinnige Basoeto-ponie gehad. Toe ek die situasie aan Ruiter verduidelik het, het hy net gesê dat ons perde stof in enige ander diere se oë sou kon skop.
Terwyl ons daar gestaan en wag het vir die donkerte van die nag met ons perde gereed en opgesaal, het twee jong plaasboere, Daniel Malherbe en Fritz Weilbach, al galoppende by my huis aangekom. Hulle was regeringsmanne wat beide ’n prominente standpunt in die politieke oorlog ingeneem het, en so het hulle besluit dat die dorp die beste plek vir hulle was. Hulle het gesê dat die hele platteland in opstand was, en dat gewapende bendes besig was om oraloor te patrolleer, en dit was net deur so vinnig te ry as wat hulle kon, dat hulle deurgekom het. Na ek hulle vertel het van die opdragte wat ek van generaal Smuts ontvang het, het hulle ingestem om saam met my te probeer vlug.
Van waar ons in my tuin gestaan het, kon ons rebelle op hulle perde teen die horison waarneem. Daar was dus geen tyd om te mors nie, en die oomblik toe dit donker genoeg was, het ons laat spat – eers al sluipende verby die tronk en die munisipale gronde en toe geluidloos die dorp uit.
Dit was blykbaar nie ’n oomblik te vroeg nie, soos ons later uitgevind het. Twintig minute na ons weggekom het, was elke uitgang beset deur brandwagte wat ten tye van ons vertrek, seker reeds besig was om posisie in te neem.
Die Volgende Dag
Omstreeks drie-uur die middag het ons Wolwehoekstasie genader, al langs die spoorlyn wat deur die Vrystaat na Johannesburg en Pretoria loop. Ons het toe omtrent vyf en twintig myl ver gery, maar teen daardie tyd het die meeste rebelle tou opgegooi. Daar was egter omtrent ’n dosyn van hulle, met beter perde of met meer determinasie as die res, wat ’n finale poging aangewend het om ons in te haal voor ons die beskerming van die stasiegeboue kon bereik. Hulle het met spoed in ’n stofwolk op ons afgejaag. Ons was onseker of die stasie deur rebelle beset was of nie, maar ons was verlig, terwyl ons gery het, om die postrein van die suide af al stomende te sien aankom. Dit was die laaste trein wat deurgekom het voordat die spoorlyn opgebreek was, en passasiers het by elke venster uitgeleun om te kyk na iets wat seker vir hulle gelyk het na ’n vertoning in ’n bioskoop: drie gewapende manne en ’n bediende wat soos die duiwel gejaag het terwyl iets soos ʼn “sheriff’s posse” op hulle sterte was.
Rebellion in Heilbron – To Be Or Not To Be Shot Dead?
From Trekking On - in the company of brave men
by Deneys Reitz
On the morning of 23 October 1914, a man came into my office and, locking the door behind him, whispered in my ear that David van Coller, the District Commandant, was coming with a strong force that night to take the town on General De Wet’s behalf, and that I was to be shot in my backyard. Having delivered himself of this at a gulp, he unlocked the door and quickly vanished.
I telephoned the information to General Smuts in Pretoria, and suggested that I should collect volunteers to defend the place. He gave me peremptory orders to do nothing of the kind. He said that if Van Coller came in and we fired on his men, the Nationalists would raise a cry throughout the country saying that we had started the trouble. He said he did not like leaving me in the lurch, but they were expecting outbreaks at other centres, so I was to look after myself.
In view of this, I saw no reason why I should tamely remain to be captured by my political opponents. I did not believe that I would be shot, for the Boers are not given to assassination, but in the heat of long quarrels I had made many enemies, and the least that would happen to me would be arrest and indignities.
I decided therefore to make my escape. I was able to ascertain that already, out of sight, there were rebel pickets on every road leading from the town, so a daylight attempt was out of the question, and my only hope was a getaway after dark.
In the meanwhile, I pretended to be ignorant of what was afoot, and attended to my affairs until four in the afternoon, when I went home to prepare for flight, and ordered Ruiter to get our horses ready. Ruiter had been with me for years. He was a bandy-legged, diminutive Hottentot, the ugliest and loyalest servant a man ever had. My horse was a thoroughbred named Bismarck, one of the best in the country, and Ruiter had a fast Basuto pony. When I explained matters to him, he said we had the legs of any animals in the district.
As we were waiting, ready saddled, for darkness to fall, two young farmers, Daniel Malherbe and Fritz Weilbach, came galloping to my house. They were Government men, and they had both taken a prominent stand in the political war, so they had decided that the town was the best place for them. They said that all the countryside had risen, that mounted bands were patrolling in every direction, and that it was only by hard riding that they had got through. When I told them of the orders received from General Smuts, they agreed to join my attempt to bolt.
By now, standing in my yard, we could see rebel horsemen dotting the skyline, so there was no time to lose, and the moment it was dark enough we set off and, slinking by the gaol and the municipal pound, slipped quietly out of town.
We left not a moment too soon, for we found afterwards that, within twenty minutes of our passing, every exit was occupied by pickets, which must even then have been closing silently in as we went.
Next Day
Towards three in the afternoon we approached Wolwehoek Station, on the railway line that comes up through the Free State to Johannesburg and Pretoria. We had ridden twenty-five miles by then, and most of the rebels had dropped out. About a dozen of them, however, better mounted, or more determined than the rest, made a final bid to get within range before we reached the cover of the station buildings, and they came hurrying towards us in a cloud of dust. We were uncertain whether the station was held by rebels or not, but we were relieved, as we rode, to see the mail train steaming in from the south. It was the last train to get through before the line was broken up, and passengers leaned from every window to view what must have seemed to them like a cinema performance, three armed men and a servant riding for their lives, and something like a sheriff’s posse coming on behind.Zulu and Rhino Impressions – 1923
From No Outspan
by Deneys Reitz
In the winter of 1923, Deneys Reitz and Jan Smuts, Cabinet and Prime Minister respectively, and comrades since Anglo-Boer War days, travelled together to Zululand on something of a holiday. In No Outspan, the third book of the published trilogy Adrift on the Open Veld, Reitz describes their meeting with ten thousand assembled Zulu warriors, and concludes with a few rhino stories and other matters for good measure, as follows.
‘Mankulumane was a magnificent savage of over ninety years, tall and erect, and every line of his heavy jowl spoke of strength and character. He had been chief counsellor to Cetewayo and Dinizulu as he was now to Solomon, and the Zulus look on him as the greatest orator of all time.
He spoke in court Zulu, a more involved language than was in everyday use, but with some knowledge of their tongue and with the help of an interpreter I was able to follow him.
He played upon his audience in masterly fashion. One moment he worked them into a rage and whole batches of warriors sprang to their feet to glower at their hereditary foes across the common border; then by a dexterous turn he sent them rocking with laughter at some witty tale of cattle or the chase.
Next, in lowered tones, he spoke of the former glories of the Zulu people, of the spirits of the dead and of great battles of the past, and when he chided them for their quarrels they sank their heads between their knees and rocked and moaned in unison.
What struck me most in his peroration was his reference to Dinizulu, his former lord.
Dinizulu was sentenced to prison in 1906 by the Natal Courts for alleged complicity in the Bambata rising. Many people at the time doubted the justice of the verdict, and an advocate uncle of mine, Mr W P Schreiner, went to great personal expense to defend him, free of charge, in a trial that lasted for months. In 1910, when General Botha became Prime Minister of the Union, he released Dinizulu who died soon after. His conviction and imprisonment are still deeply resented by the tribes.
Mankulumane had been at Dinizulu's burial and, referring to it in his speech, said: “I am not an Usutu. I belong to the M’Gangkwe tribe. We were conquered by Panda. But the Usutus, once we submitted, gave us their trust. Although we had fought against them, I rose to high honour, even to being chief counsellor of their kings. Throughout many wars that confidence, once given, was never withdrawn.
“But see how the white man treated Dinizulu! He submitted to them and they pretended to accept his word, but it was make-believe. When Bambata rose at Nkandhla forest they, whilst lulling the king with soft words, surrounded him. He lies dead of a broken heart.”
Mankulumane ended in slow measured tones, and there was dead silence as he finished. All of us were impressed by what he said, and some of us perhaps a little ashamed.
Then came a war dance, each tribe in its own territory. It was magnificent, but we were relieved when it was over without a breach of the peace. We returned on horseback to Nongoma and the great impis marched off in clouds of dust.
Next morning we continued the homeward journey, passing several European villages on the way. At one of these the people told us that a white rhino had recently paid them a visit. There are two kinds in Zululand, the white and the black. The black rhino is smaller and more vicious than the square-lipped variety. Both are shortsighted and inclined to charge at anything they scent but cannot clearly see. On this occasion the white rhino walked through several garden lots, coming away with a tangle of fencing-wire around his head. Then he entered the village and lumbered down the street. Seeing the open door of a cottage, he put his head inside and dislodged the electric bell and battery, both of which hung on the horn of his nose when he backed out. Unperturbed by this, he ambled into a yard and collected a clothes line and the family washing, with all of which he disappeared into the forest beyond. As he went the electric bell made contact and started to ring, while the fencing wire still trailed behind, and the multicoloured garments fluttered along his flanks like a battle ship on gala day.
A Zululand game ranger told me he was once walking along a path, with a piccanin behind him, when they saw a white rhino lying asleep in a clearing. The piccanin ran ahead and kicked the rhino in the ribs. He started angrily to his feet, but on seeing his tiny aggressor he gave a snort of disgust and moved off.
We went via Eshowe and Melmoth, and we passed the spot where Dingaan’s capital had stood. Under a rude cairn lay the bones of Piet Retief and his men, who were murdered there in 1836.
Further on we went by the place where the Prince Imperial, son of that upstart Napoleon III, was killed by the Zulus. I had seen his mother, the Empress Eugénie, in 1917 at Aldershot. She was then old and shrunken, but my father had seen her in the heyday of her youth at the Paris Exhibition, and he told me she had been a very beautiful woman.
When we reached the Natal railway line, a special train was ready for us and we returned to Pretoria in July 1923.’
Zoeloe en Renoster-Indrukke – 1923
deur Deneys Reitz
In die winter van 1923 het Deneys Reitz en Jan Smuts, respektiewelik kabinets- en eerste minister en kamerade sedert die Anglo-Boereoorlog, saam deur Zoeloeland getoer op iets wat vir hulle soos ’n vakansie was. In No Outspan, die derde boek in die gepubliseerde trilogie Adrift on the Open Veld, beskryf Reitz hulle ontmoeting met ’n samekoms van tienduisend Zoeloe-stryders. Met ’n paar renosterstories en ander aangeleenthede op die koop toe, sluit hy as volg af:
“Mankulumane was ’n manjifieke barbaar van oor die negentig jaar, lank en regop en elke gelaatstrek van sy sterk gesig het van krag en karakter getuig. Hy was die hoof-raadsman van Cetewayo en Dinuzulu soos hy op daardie tydstip ook van Solomon was. Die Zoeloes het hom as die grootste orator van alle tye beskou.
Die Zoeloe-taal wat hy gepraat het, was formeel en ingewikkeld soos in ’n vergadering van die oudstes van die ringkoppe met die opperhoof en nie die alledaagse gebruikstaal nie, maar omdat ek ’n bietjie Zoeloe verstaan en met die hulp van ’n tolk, kon ek volg wat hy sê.
Hy het sy gehoor meesterlik beheer. Een oomblik het hy ’n hele impi woedend laat opspring om in die rigting van hulle oorgeërfde vyande anderkant die gemeenskaplike, afgebakende grens onheilspellend te gluur, en dan weer heel knap kon hy hulle laat uitbars van die lag met ’n grappige vertelling van ’n jagtog of ’n storie oor beeste.
Vervolgens, in ’n gedempte stem, het hy gepraat oor vroeëre glorieryke tye wat die Zoeloes beleef het, die voorvadergeeste en veldslae van die verlede. En wanneer hy hulle berispe het oor hulle struwelinge, het hulle neergesak met hulle koppe tussen hulle knieë en so saam al klaende heen en weer gewieg.
Wat my die meeste beïndruk het in sy redevoering, was sy verwysing na Dinizulu, sy vorige heerser.
Dinizulu is in 1906 deur die Natalse Hof tronk toe gestuur vir sy beweerde medepligtigheid in die Bambata opstand. Ten tye was daar heelparty mense wat die regverdigheid van die uitspraak betwyfel het, en ’n oom van my wat destyds ’n advokaat was, W.P. Schreiner, het groot persoonlike ongerief verduur en hom kosteloos verdedig in ’n hofgeding wat maande lank geduur het. In 1910, toe generaal Botha eerste minister van die unie geword het, het hy Dinizulu vrygelaat, maar kort daarna is hy egter oorlede. Sy skuldigbevinding en tronkstraf het die stamme steeds erg gegrief.
Mankulumane het die begrafnis van Dinizulu bygewoon en toe hy daarna verwys het in sy toespraak, het hy gesê: ‘Ek is nie ’n Usutu nie. Ek behoort aan die M’Gangkwe-stam. Panda het ons verslaan. Na ons ons onderwerp het, het die Usutus hul vertroue aan ons gegee. Alhoewel ons teen hulle baklei het, het ek ’n hoë, eerbare posisie bereik, en was selfs aangestel as hoof-raadgewer van hulle konings. Hierdie vertrouens-ooreenkoms is deur baie jare nooit verbreek nie.
‘Maar let op hoe die witman Dinizulu behandel het! Hy het hom aan hulle oorgegee en hulle het voorgegee dat hulle sy woord aanvaar het, maar dit was nie waarlik so nie. Toe Bambata in die woude van Nkandhla in opstand gekom het, het hulle die koning met mooi woordjies gepaai terwyl hulle hom omring het. ’n Gebroke hart het tot sy dood gelei.’
Op ’n stadige afgemete toon het Mankulumane sy toespraak afgesluit, en aan die einde was daar ’n doodse stilte. Ons was almal beïndruk deur wat hy gesê het en sommige selfs ietwat beskaamd.
’n Oorlogsdans het hierna gevolg; elke stam in sy eie afgebakende gebied. Dit was manjifiek, maar ons was almal verlig toe dit geëindig het sonder ’n verbreking van die vrede. Ons het te perd teruggekeer Nongoma toe terwyl die impi’s heel indrukwekkend in ’n stofwolk wegbeweeg het.
Die volgende oggend het ons ons reis huiswaarts hervat en op ons pad verby ’n hele paar Europese dorpies gereis. By een van die plekke het die mense ons vertel van ’n witrenoster wat hulle kort van tevore besoek het. Daar is twee soorte renosters in Zoeloeland, die witte en die swartrenoster. Laasgenoemde is kleiner, maar heel befoeterd en nie so rustig soos die witrenoster nie. Altwee is bysiende en geneig om op enigiets af te storm wat hulle kan ruik, maar nie kan sien nie. Op die geleentheid het die witrenoster deur ’n hele paar tuine geloop en aan die anderkant uitgekom met stukke van die heinings om sy kop gewoel. Toe het hy straat af die dorpie binne gewandel. Hy het die oop deur van ’n huis opgemerk, sy kop daar ingesteek, en die elektriese klokkie en battery ontwrig sodat beide om sy horing gehang het toe hy in trurat oorgeskakel het. Ongesteurd hierdeur het hy by ’n agterplaas ingeslenter, die wasgoedlyn met die familie se wasgoed raak gestroop en saam met hom verder gesleep. Met dié het die klokkie kontak gemaak en aan het luie gegaan. Hy was soos ’n oorlogskip op ’n feesdag met veelkleurige kledingstukke al fladderende aan sy sye terwyl hy weer die bosse in verdwyn het.
’n Wildwagter van Zoeloeland het my vertel dat hy eendag met ʼn piekanien agter hom in ’n paadjie afgestap het, toe hulle op ’n witrenoster afgekom het wat in ’n opening in die bos gelê en slaap het. Die piekanien het vooruit gehardloop en die dier in die ribbes geskop. Die dier het verwoed opgespring, maar met die sien van die klein aanvallertjie, het hy net gesnork van verontwaardiging en die aftog geblaas.
Via Eshowe en Melmoth het ons verby die plek gegaan waar Dingaan se hoofstat eens gestaan het. Hier onder ’n onversorgde klipstapel het die gebeentes van Piet Retief en sy manskappe gelê wat daar in 1838 vermoor is.
Verder het ons die plek besoek waar die Vorstelike Prins, die seun van verwaande Napoleon III, deur die Zoeloes doodgemaak is. Ek het sy ma, die keiserin Eugénie, in 1917 in Aldershot gesien. Sy het oud en vervalle daar uitgesien, maar my pa het haar in die fleur van haar lewe by die Paryse Uitstalling gesien, en hy het my vertel dat sy toe ’n beeldskone vrou was.
’n Spesiale trein het op ons gewag toe ons die Natalse spoorlyn bereik het. Ons het in Julie 1923 teruggekeer Pretoria toe.”
In die Skadu van die Withaak – 'n Uittreksel
Luiperds? – het oom Schalk Lourens gesê – O, ja, daar is twee soorte aan hierdie kant van die Limpopo. Die grootste verskil tussen hulle is dat die een tipe ’n paar meer kolle het as die ander een. Maar as jy onverwags op ’n luiperd in die veld afkom, doen jy selde die moeite om die kolle te tel om uit te vind watter een van die twee dit is. Dis onnodig. Want watter soort luiperd dit ookal is wat jou pad op hierdie manier kruis, daar is net een soort hardloop wat jy gaan doen. En dit is die vinnigste.
Ek onthou die geleentheid toe ek onverwags op ’n luiperd afgekom het, en tot vandag toe kan ek jou nie vertel hoeveel kolle hy gehad het nie, alhoewel ek al die tyd in die wêreld gehad het om hom te bestudeer. Dit het in die middel van die dag gebeur, toe ek op die verste end van my plaas, agter ’n koppie, op die soek was na afgedwaalde beeste. Ek het gedink dat die beeste daar sou wees, want dit was skaduryk onder daardie withaakbome, met lekker sagte gras om op te sit. Na ek omtrent ’n uur lank na die beeste op hierdie manier gesoek het, met my rug rustende teen die boomstam, het dit tot my deurgedring dat ek net so goed na hulle kon soek, of miskien selfs beter, as ek plat gaan lê. Selfs ’n kind weet dat beeste nie so klein is dat jy op stelte moet wees om hulle ordentlik te sien.
So lê ek toe op my rug, met my hoed skuins oor my gesig, my bene gekruis, en wanneer ek my oë so effens toegeknyp het, het die punt van my skoen wat toe boontoe gewys het, net soos die kruin van Abjaterskop gelyk.
Bo in die lug het ’n eensame aasvoël om en om gesirkel sonder om sy vlerke te klap, en ek het geweet dat selfs nie ’n kalf in enige deel van die lug tussen die punt van my skoen en daardie aasvoël kon verskyn sonder dat ek hom dadelik gaan raaksien nie. Wat meer was, ek kon die hele dag daar onder die withaak lê en soek na die beeste as dit nodig was.
Hoe meer ek my oë op skrefies getrek het en na die punt van my skoen gestaar het, hoe meer het dit na Abjaterskop gelyk. Na ’n rukkie het dit gelyk asof dit werklik Abjaterskop was, en ek kon die rotse bo op die kruin sien, en die bosse wat teen die kranse probeer boontoe groei, en in my ore was daar ’n sagte, veraf gonsende geluid soos bye in ’n boord op ’n stil dag. Soos ek gesê het, dit was heel aangenaam.
Toe het daar ’n snaakse ding gebeur. Dit was asof ’n groot wolk, in die vorm van ’n dier se kop met kolle, bo-op Abjaterskop tot ruste gekom het. Dit het so snaaks gelyk dat ek lus was om te lag. Maar ek het nie. Inteendeel, ek het my oë so effentjies groter oopgemaak en bly gevoel om te weet dat ek net gedroom het. Anders sou ek moes glo dat die wolk met die kolle bo-op Abjaterskop in werklikheid ’n luiperd was, en dat hy na my skoene gestaar het. Weer was ek lus om te lag. Maar toe, skielik, het ek geweet.
Ek het nie meer so vrolik gevoel nie, want dit was ’n luiperd. Waarlik – ’n groot, hongerlykende luiperd, en hy het agterdogtig aan my voete geruik. Ek het ongemaklik gevoel. Ek het geweet dat niks wat ek ookal kon doen die luiperd sou wysmaak dat my toon Abjaterskop was nie. Ek wou opspring en weghol. Maar ek kon nie. My bene wou nie beweeg nie.
Elke grootwildjagter wat ek teëgekom het, het my dieselfde storie vertel van hoe, op een of ander geleentheid, hy van leeus en ander wilde diere ontsnap het deur doodstil te lê en voor te gee dat hy dood was, sodat die roofdier belangstelling in hom verloor het en weggeloop het. Toe ek nou so daar in die gras gelê het terwyl die luiperd besig was om oor my te besluit, het ek verstaan hoekom ’n jagter in so ’n situasie nie beweeg nie. Hy kan eenvoudig net nie. Dis al. Dis nie sy slimmigheid wat hom daar op die grond hou nie. Dis sy bene.
Dit was verskriklike oomblikke. Ek het baie stil gelê, te bang om my oë oop te maak of om asem te haal. Al snuifende het die kolossale dierasie om my beweeg en sy warm asem het hygend oor my gesig geveeg. Mens hoor baie van die vreesaanjaende ervarings in mense se lewens. Ek self was al in ʼn hele paar lewensgevaarlike situasies gewees, maar as jy iets soek wat jou sommer skielik oud maak en jou hare binne oomblikke laat grys word, dan is daar niks wat kers vashou by ’n luiperd nie – veral as hy bo-oor jou staan met sy kake aan jou keel, besig om ’n lekker plek te soek om jou te byt nie.
Die luiperd het diep gegrom en regoor my liggaam geklim, my hoed afgestamp, en weer gegrom. Ek het my oë oopgemaak en die dier lomperig sien wegbeweeg. Maar my verligting was egter van korte duur. Die luiperd het nie te ver weggestap nie. In pleks daarvan het hy omgedraai en langs my kom lê.
Ja, daar op die gras in die skaduwee van die withaak, het ek en die luiperd langs mekaar gelê. Die luiperd het half opgerol gelê, nes ’n hond, en wanneer ek probeer het om weg te beweeg, het hy gegrom. Ek is seker dat in die hele geskiedenis van die Groot Marico daar nog nooit twee vreemder metgeselle was wat saam in die ondankbare taak betrokke was om na afgedwaalde beeste te soek nie.
Die volgende dag in Fanie Snyman se voorkamer wat as ’n poskantoor gedien het, het ek my storie aan die boere van die omgewing vertel, terwyl hulle koffie gedrink en gewag het vir die lorrie van Zeerust af.
Die mense het aanvanklik die gek geskeer oor hierdie luiperd. Hulle het gesê dat dit nie regtig ’n luiperd was nie, maar liewers net ’n dier met kolle wat uit Schalk Lourens se droom weggeloop het, en die nadraai van die hele affêre was dat ek ook begin twyfel het aan die bestaan van die luiperd.
Maar sake het ’n ander wending geneem toe daar ’n paar dae later ’n luiperd langs die pad naby die poort gesien is, en toe weer deur Mtosas op pad na Nietverdiend, en weer in die turflande langs die Malopo. En toe sy spore by ’n hele paar watergate gevind is, het die mense glad nie meer getwyfel aan die bestaan van die luiperd nie. Dit was gevaarlik om in die veld rond te loop, het hulle gesê.
Opwindende tye het aangebreek. Daar was ’n grootskaalse geskietery op die luiperd en ’n grootskaalse weghollery van die luiperd af. Die aantal Martini en Mauserskote wat ek uit die kranse aangehoor het, het my meer aan die Eerste Boereoorlog as enigiets anders laat dink. En die mate van weghollery het my meer aan die Tweede Boereoorlog laat dink as enigiets anders.
Maar elkers het die luiperd ongeskonde daarvan afgekom. Op ’n manier, het ek jammer vir hom gevoel. Die manier wat hy aanvanklik aan my geruik het en toe langs my kom lê het daar onder die withaak, was ’n vreemde ding wat ek nie verstaan het nie. Ek het aan die Bybel gedink, waar daar geskryf staan dat die leeu langs die lam sal gaan lê.
Ek het ook gewonder of dit nie net alles ’n droom was nie. Die manier wat ek hierdie dinge ervaar het, was bowenaards, en baie van my gedagtes het oor die luiperd gegaan. Verder was daar niemand met wie ek kon praat wat my op enige manier kon help nie. Selfs nou, terwyl ek die storie vertel, verwag ek dat jy vir my sal knipoog net soos Krisjan Lemmer. (Jy ken daardie soort van knipoog. Dit was om my te laat weet dat daar nou ’n nuwe verstandhouding tussen ons was, en dat ons in die toekoms met mekaar kon praat soos een Marico leuenaar met die ander.)
Steeds egter, kan ek jou net die dinge vertel soos ek dit gesien het, en waaroor die res gegaan het, weet net Afrika.
Dit was ’n ruk daarna dat ek weer op die paadjie deur die bos geloop het na die withaakbome. Maar ek het nie weer op die gras gaan lê nie, want toe ek die plek bereik het, het ek gesien dat die luiperd voor my daarheen gegaan het. Hy het daar op dieselfde plek gelê, half opgekrul in die skadu van die withaak, en sy voorpote was oormekaar gevou net soos ʼn hond soms doen. Maar hy het baie stil gelê. En selfs van die afstand vanwaar ek gestaan het, kon ek die rooi bloedkol op sy bors sien waar die Mauserkoeël hom getref het.
In the Withaak's Shade – An Extract
by Herman Charles Bosman
Leopards? – Oom Schalk Lourens said – Oh, yes, there are two varieties on this side of the Limpopo. The chief difference between them is that the one kind of leopard has got a few more spots on it than the other kind. But when you meet a leopard in the veld, unexpectedly, you seldom trouble to count his spots to find out which kind he belongs to. That is unnecessary. Because, whatever kind of leopard it is that you come across in this way, you only do one kind of running. And that is the fastest kind.
I remember the occasion when I came across a leopard unexpectedly, and to this day I cannot tell you how many spots he had, even though I had all the time I needed for studying him. It happened at about midday, when I was out on the far end of my farm, behind a koppie, looking for some strayed cattle. I thought the cattle might be there because it is shady under those withaak trees, and there is soft grass that is very pleasant to sit on. After I had looked for the cattle for about an hour in this manner, sitting up against a tree-trunk, it occurred to me that I could look for them just as well, or perhaps even better, if I lay down flat. For even a child knows that cattle aren’t so small that you have to stand on stilts or something to see them properly.
So I lay on my back, with my hat tilted over my face, and my legs crossed, and when I closed my eyes slightly the tip of my boot, sticking up into the air, looked just like the peak of Abjaterskop.
Overhead a lonely aasvoël wheeled, circling slowly round and round without flapping his wings, and I knew that not even a calf could pass in any part of the sky between the tip of my toe and that aasvoël without my observing it immediately. What was more, I could go on lying there under the withaak looking for the cattle like that all day, if necessary.
The more I screwed up my eyes and gazed at the toe of my boot, the more it looked like Abjaterskop. By and by it seemed that it actually was Abjaterskop, and I could see the stones on top of it, and the bushes trying to grow up its sides, and in my ears there was a far-off humming sound, like bees in an orchard on a still day. As I have said, it was very pleasant.
Then a strange thing happened. It was as though a huge cloud, shaped like an animal’s head and with spots on it, had settled on top of Abjaterskop. It seemed so funny that I wanted to laugh. But I didn’t. Instead, I opened my eyes a little more and felt glad to think that I was only dreaming. Because otherwise I would have to believe that the spotted cloud on Abjaterskop was actually a leopard, and that he was gazing at my boot. Again I wanted to laugh. But then, suddenly, I knew.
And I didn’t feel so glad. For it was a leopard, all right – a large-sized, hungry-looking leopard, and he was sniffing suspiciously at my feet. I was uncomfortable. I knew that nothing I could do would ever convince that leopard that my toe was Abjaterskop. I wanted to get up and run for it. But I couldn’t. My legs wouldn’t work.
Every big-game hunter I have come across has told me the same story about how, at one time or another, he has owed his escape from lions or other wild animals to his cunning in lying down and pretending to be dead, so that the beast of prey loses interest in him and walks off. Now as I lay there on the grass, with the leopard trying to make up his mind about me, I understood why, in such a situation, the hunter doesn’t move. It’s simply that he can’t move. That’s all. It’s not his cunning that keeps him down. It’s his legs.
Those were terrible moments. I lay very still, afraid to open my eyes and afraid to breathe. Sniff-sniff, the huge creature went, and his breath swept over my face in hot gasps. You hear of many frightening experiences that a man has in a lifetime. I have also been in quite a few perilous situations. But if you want something to make you suddenly old and to turn your hair white in a few moments, there is nothing to beat a leopard – especially when he is standing over you, with his jaws at your throat, trying to find a good place to bite.
The leopard gave a deep growl, stepped right over my body, knocked off my hat, and growled again. I opened my eyes and saw the animal moving away clumsily. But my relief didn’t last long. The leopard didn’t move far. Instead, he turned over and lay down next to me.
Yes, there on the grass, in the shade of the withaak, the leopard and I lay down together. The leopard lay half curled up, like a dog, and whenever I tried to move away, he grunted. I am sure that in the whole history of the Groot Marico there have never been two stranger companions engaged in the thankless task of looking for strayed cattle.
Next day, in Fanie Snyman’s voorkamer, which was used as a post office, I told my story to the farmers of the neighbourhood, while they were drinking coffee and waiting for the motor-lorry from Zeerust.
At first people jested about this leopard. They said it wasn’t a real leopard, but a spotted animal that had walked away out of Schalk Lourens’s dream, and the upshot of this whole affair was that I too began to have doubts about the existence of the leopard.
But when, a few days later, a huge leopard was seen from the roadside near the poort, and then again by Mtosas on the way to Nietverdiend, and again in the turf-lands near the Malopo, matters took a different turn. And when his spoor was found at several waterholes, people had no further doubt about the leopard. It was dangerous to walk about in the veld, they said.
Exciting times followed. There was a great deal of shooting at the leopard and a great deal of running away from him. The amount of Martini and Mauser fire I heard in the krantzes reminded me of nothing so much as the First Boer War. And the amount of running away reminded me of nothing so much as the Second Boer War.
But always the leopard escaped unharmed. Somehow, I felt sorry for him. The way he had first sniffed at me and then lain down beside me that day under the withaak was a strange thing I couldn’t understand. I thought of the Bible, where it is written that the lion shall lie down with the lamb.
I also wondered whether I hadn’t dreamt it all. The manner in which these things had befallen me was unearthly, and the leopard began to take up a lot of my thoughts. Also, there was no man I could talk to about it who would be able to help me in any way. Even now, as I’m telling you this story, I’m expecting you to wink at me like Krisjan Lemmer did. (You know that kind of wink. It was to let me know that there was now a new understanding between us, and that we could speak in future as one Marico liar to another.)
Still, I can only tell you the things that happened as I saw them, and what the rest was about only Africa knows.
It was some time before I again walked along the path that leads through the bush to where the withaaks are. But I didn’t lie down on the grass again. Because when I reached the place, I found that the leopard had got there before me. He was lying on the same spot, half curled up in the withaak’s shade, and his forepaws were folded as a dog’s are sometimes. But he lay very still. And even from the distance where I stood I could see the red splash on his breast where a Mauser bullet had gone.
The Disabled Hero – Cape Rebel Par Excellence
by Hennie Jansen
In the bitterly cold winter of 1901, during the Anglo-Boer War, General Jan Smuts and his commando invaded the Cape Colony. They did so in the belief that the use of Boer guerrilla tactics in the Cape Colony would distract and divide the enemy forces, and in this way help bring relief to the hard-pressed Republics up north. The invasion also carried with it the possibility of an uprising in the Colony should Cape Afrikaners (and others) be disposed to take up arms in support of the Republics.
The Smuts commando crossed the Orange River in the easterly district of Zastron. This was not achieved without considerable difficulty, for British forces were monitoring their progress, harrying them and trying to head them off, to nip this threatened incursion in the bud.
By September 1901, the commando of some 250 burgers and about 500 horses had marauded high into the Stormberg mountains, up a pass and onto a flat, grassy tableland about three miles wide, from which there was no apparent escape. The commando found itself isolated on this plateau, surrounded by rocky precipices where the face of the mountain fell sharply away to the plains below. When British soldiers began arriving on the plateau, the burgers could see the seriousness of their predicament: they were trapped on the flat mountain top as all passes were now controlled by the advancing enemy forces. By dusk, encircled by soldiers and precipices, the commando was sheltering defensively in a low-lying area around a small farmhouse and a kraal.
Believing that they had the commando cornered, the British forces seemed to be waiting until morning, when the commando would have had no option but to surrender.
In Commando – Of Horses and Men, Deneys Reitz, who was part of the Smuts commando, tells what happened next.
‘General Smuts stood before the homestead in whispered conversation with his two lieutenants, while the rest of us leaned on our rifles, too weary to care very much what happened. Then out of the house came a hunchbacked cripple, who said that he would lead us through the English troops to the edge of the tableland, by a way that was unlikely to be watched, for it ran through boggy soil. His offer was eagerly accepted, and orders were given to mount at once. Six or seven men had been wounded during the day, two of them so badly that they had to be left behind, but the others chose to accompany us, and in a few minutes we were silently filing off into the darkness, the cripple crouching insecurely on a horse at our head. He took us along a squelching path, that twisted for a mile or two, so close to the investing troops that we could hear voices and the champing of bits, but by the end of an anxious hour he had brought us undiscovered to the escarpment. From here the mountainside fell sharply away into black depths below, how steeply we could not tell, but our guide warned us that it was very steep indeed. Dropping from his horse he plodded off into the night on his crutches, carrying with him our heartfelt thanks, for he had risked his life and goods on our behalf.’
What followed was probably the closest to a vertical descent by any mounted force during the war. The commando, men and horses, went glissading into the black depths, bumping and banging their way down, but they landed below without any serious damage. The British forces had not considered the possibility of the commando being so foolish as to plunge over a precipice with their horses, but of course they were unaware that this part of the escarpment was covered with a thick matting of grass to cushion the fall. Thus both men and horses were able to continue their incursion into the Cape Colony, thanks to the courage of a Cape Rebel extraordinaire.
