Adventures in Swaziland: The Story of a South African Boer

by Owen Rowe O'Neil

Now Klaas was smaller and lighter than either Sibijaan or myself and stood no chance with us in combat of any sort. We took firm hold of him—Sibijaan by his arms and I by his ears—and then I delivered my ultimatum:

"You see all these white men, Klaas," I said. "They are thieves. They have come here to steal all the Ou Baas's (Old Boss's) money. You've got to ride your best to-day. 'Black Hand Tom' is the best horse. He'll win if you ride him right. If you lose, Sibijaan and I will kill you! Won't we, Sibijaan?"

My fellow conspirator most emphatically agreed. He made motions that illustrated a neat and expeditious way of cutting Klaas's throat and of visiting other unpleasant deaths upon him. Klaas was properly impressed.

"If I don't win the race I am willing to die!" he said, and with this understanding we returned to the track. I found my father surrounded by the Johannesburg gamblers, and squeezed my way into the group to find much betting going on. With Boer shrewdness, father was demanding and getting good odds. He took the stand that "Black Hand Tom" had never been raced and had never won a race, while the horses of the others were tried campaigners of great reputation. The gamblers grumbled, but finally gave odds, until father stood to win or lose thousands of pounds.

Finally race time came. I suppose there never was such a crowd as swarmed about that track. It was about three quarters of a mile around, and the entire circumference was lined with people. The whites were all grouped about the start and finish line, while all the remaining space was one deep belt of black men. There were literally tens of thousands, among them many women.

The distance of the race was four times around the track. Excitement was intense when the horses came out on the track. It was a perfect day, the sky cloudless and the air like diamonds in its sparkling clearness. "Black Hand Tom" was the last horse out, but the minute he appeared, with Klaas perched on his back and all decked out in the O'Neil colors, there was a roar from the crowd.

I was at the starting-line, Sibijaan at my side, and we were fairly dancing with excitement. A moment later the horses—nine of them—were strung out along the line and the starting began. Three attempts were made, our horse always being the last over the line. This was criminal in my eyes, and both Sibijaan and I shouted threats of sudden death to Klaas.

On the fourth try they were off and the race was on. If I live to be as old as Queen Labotisibeni, I shall never forget the agony of that race! Round and round the horses went, first one and then another in front. At the end of the first lap "Black Hand Tom" was last. We shouted ourselves hoarse, hurling imprecations at Klaas. At the end of the second lap our horse was next to last, and then Sibijaan and I knew exactly how we would despatch Klaas as soon as we could get hold of him.

Then came the sensation of the day, of the age! At the first turn of the third lap "Black Hand Tom" swung wide and began to pass the other horses. One by one he caught them and went by. Each time he passed one the crowd fairly roared its head off. As they swept by on the beginning of the last lap there were only two horses ahead of ours, and they seemed tiring. At the first turn "Black Hand Tom" passed one and then, on the back stretch, went by the other! The crowd fairly split the heavens. A moment later "Black Hand Tom," the greatest horse in the world, tore over the winning line a good three lengths in the lead! Absolute pandemonium broke loose. I remember catching hold of Sibijaan and dancing up and down like a lunatic. Every one seemed to be doing the same thing.

We tore through the mob to where our horse stood entirely surrounded by crazy Boers and as many natives as could get close. There was father, quiet and self-contained, with his silk hat on his head at the usual angle. He was as undisturbed as though nothing had happened and seemed more anxious to get out of the crowd than anything else. From all sides his friends crowded in on him, shaking his hand and patting the great horse. Klaas, still in the saddle, wore the air of a conquering hero, and some enthusiastic Boer had presented him with a lot of money which he held closely clutched to his thin stomach.