Adventures in Swaziland: The Story of a South African Boer

by Owen Rowe O'Neil

"You are all to go to your homes," he said, "and there wait for orders. There is serious trouble with the English and Oom Paul commands that all stand ready for whatever may come. God grant that this is not war."

There seemed to be a divided sentiment about this. Some of the leaders, particularly the younger ones, did not appear to dislike the thought of war, but the old men drew long faces and looked very grave. However, they all mounted and before long the last had left. I did not realize then that I would never see them all again. The shadow of war was over the land and many of our troop were later killed.

A short time after our return from Swaziland word reached my father from President Kruger that he was to visit the leading Boers of our district and get their opinion regarding the suggested war with England. War was practically inevitable at that time and my father found the sentiment almost overwhelmingly in favor of it. He counselled against fighting England, because he knew of the unlimited resources of the empire and how impossible it would be for us to win. Knowing my father's astuteness, the old Boers listened to him and were almost won over to peace, but just then word came that war had been declared.

Immediately the whole country blazed up. Every farm and settlement sent its men, all mounted and armed with the best Mausers and hunting rifles, and in a trice the Transvaal and Orange Free State were on the war-path.

It was our misfortune that the British broke into our part of the Transvaal first. When we heard they were coming, we took everything of value and moved to Belfast, which had been fortified and where we were prepared to stand a siege. I shall never forget the excitement of those days. My mother was in delicate condition and the whole thing was a terrible hardship for her. For me, and for the rest of us boys, it was a great and glorious lark!

The air was filled with stories of battles, and before long streams of wounded men were sent from our field forces to the improvised hospitals in Belfast. We boys used to watch these caravans with intense interest and would run errands for the wounded and bring them presents. These farmer-soldiers were our heroes, and we were proud of the saying, "For each Boer, five Englishmen," this being the ratio our fighters claimed was about right.

However, it was not long before we began to find the British could not be stopped and one morning, late in 1899, Belfast was besieged by forces under General Paul Carew. We suffered many hardships and I soon realized that war was a grim and earnest business. My mother would pray continually that our peril in Belfast be ended either by victory of our troops or their speedy surrender to the British. She made the vow that her unborn child should bear the name of the victorious general, and when, on the eve of the triumphant entry of the British into Belfast, a little daughter was born, she was given the name of Paul Carew, with the prefix "Impi," which, in addition to meaning a regiment, is also the Zulu word for war.

My sister, Impi, certainly lives up to her name. Determination and fighting spirit are her chief characteristics, and she is equally at home in handling wild horses or obstinate kaffirs. In addition, she is one of the best rifle shots in the Transvaal and can beat any one of her sex when it comes to a race on foot.

General Carew constituted Belfast a British base, and the countryside was raided and ravaged by the troops making it their headquarters. Hardly a farm escaped, and even to-day there are ruins that recall those dark days. But two rooms of our home in Belfast were habitable and it was in these that we lived. The main British camp was directly in front of our house, and the situation galled me. I hated the British for driving us out of Rietvlei and for ruining our home, and before long I declared war on them on my own account. What happened is a good example of the way the English treated us.

I gathered all the boys of the town, that is, the dozen white boys, and drilled them as my impi. Sibijaan, being black, was not allowed to take part in our war. I considered it beneath me to let him fight with me against other whites. We armed ourselves with stones and sticks and late at night made a concerted attack on the British headquarters, which had been established in the ruins of the local hotel.