At the Fireside Read online

  This was not a challenge that arose from mere bravado. Konomtjarhelo was a formidable fortress which had proved impregnable a half-century earlier, when the Ndzundza had rallied and beaten off an attack by Mzilikazi’s terrifying Matabele hordes, something not many clans had ever managed.

  Its sheer rock-faces, precipitous cliffs and complex network of caves, grottos and tunnels provided both places of refuge and space for storage which made it possible to withstand a long siege, and the caves were particularly remarkable. Fighters could disappear into one and emerge from another a kilometre away.

  In addition, before the main stronghold could be assaulted an attacker would first have to overcome a series of well-fortified hills, notably KwaPondo and KwaMrhali (called ‘Vlugkraal’ and ‘Boskop’ respectively by the Boers, whose name for Konomtjarhelo was simply ‘Spitskop’).

  Joubert concluded that the only way of bringing Nyabela to defeat without suffering significant losses of his own was to wear the sub-chiefs down by confining them and their people to their mountain fortress and allowing starvation to do the rest. But the Ndzundza clansmen clearly had no intention of simply sitting and waiting; on 5 November 1882 a raiding party swooped unexpectedly down from the surrounding heights and began driving the commandos’ oxen – almost 1 000 head – towards one of their caves.

  The Boers excelled at this sort of highly mobile running fight, however, and about 150 of them set off immediately, caught up with the raiders and retrieved the oxen, killing more than 20 Ndzundza warriors while suffering only one minor casualty.

  Joubert now set about gradually isolating the Ndzundza strongpoints from fresh supplies, erecting little makeshift triangular forts, each with its own grand name – one was called ‘Fort Nuwejaar’ and another ‘Fort Potchefstroom’, and so on – and strengthening his striking power with more artillery pieces which arrived from Pretoria. By 17 November a fort was in place about 2 000 paces away from the KwaPondo bastion. The Ndzundzas launched a counter-attack aimed at driving the Boers back but it was beaten off at a cost to Nyabela of about 40 dead for the loss of one Boer.

  Nyabela now recognised his plight and sent out emissaries to open peace negotiations. But Joubert was having none of this and told them he was only prepared to deal with the ruler in person. Nyabela rejected this provision, perhaps suspecting it was a ruse to capture him.

  KwaPondo did not fall in spite of the Boers’ use of artillery and dynamite, which proved ineffective because of the deep caves. By early December the Boers had been reinforced by contingents from friendly neighbouring tribes in addition to the Pedi loyalists, and on 7 December the combined force launched a determined attack, but was driven back when they were unexpectedly set upon by about 600 of Nyabela’s men.

  This embarrassment was avenged two days later, when the allies mounted an early-morning raid and killed dozens of Nzundzas who had dodged into a cave but were then smoked out.

  Inexorably Joubert’s stranglehold tightened. On 5 February KwaPondo was finally taken after a day-long battle, with the Boers and their allies clearing the defences one by one till the fortress had been secured. The strongpoints were dynamited to prevent their re-occupation, and Joubert turned his attention to Konomtjarhelo itself.

  Ever-sensitive about casualties, he decided on the strange course of digging a trench up to the base of Konomtjarhelo, then digging a tunnel into its bowels and blowing it up. It was a long, uncomfortable and tortuous process, with the Nzundzas harassing the Boers with sniper fire and such strategems as catapulting boulders down on the diggers.

  Shielded by a small wheeled iron fort, the diggers reached the base of Konomtjarhelo – and then ran into a seam of granite which put a permanent end to Joubert’s plan. By now the Nzundzas’ food supplies were running out, but Nyabela refused to give in, although the Boers promised to spare his life and allow his clan to remain on their lands.

  Early in June they launched an audacious raid for food and captured about 200 Boer oxen, and at the end of the month beat off about 70 frustrated Boers who had volunteered to rush there (they got to within 15 metres of the summit before being seen off by the defenders).

  But Nyabela knew that he had now reached the end of the line, so he had Mampuru seized and delivered to Joubert. But it was too late. The siege had cost more than £40 000 (a very large sum for the impoverished republic) and several dozen lives; nothing would suffice now except an unconditional surrender. That came three days later when Nyabela surrendered with about 8 000 followers.

  The entire Ndebele country was incorporated into the ZAR. A proclamation on 31 August 1883 divided 36 000 hectares of land among the burgers who had fought in the campaign, each receiving seven hectares. Followers of the defeated chiefs were scattered around the republic and indentured to farmers as virtual slave labourers. Later the whole area, now called ‘Mapoch’s Gronden’, was incorporated into the Middelburg District.

  Nyabela and Mampuru were tried in Pretoria and sentenced to death. Mampuru was duly hanged, but after the British Government had lodged an appeal for clemency Nyabela’s sentence was commuted, and he spent 15 years in prison before being released; he died on 19 December 1902, just seven months after the ZAR itself.

  Konomtjharelo, which lies 10 kilometres east of the little town of Roos- Senekal (itself named after two of the Boer casualties) on the road to Lydenburg, has long been held in deep reverence by the Ndebele and especially the Ndzundza.

  In 1970 a statue of Nyabela was erected at the foot of the hill in the presence of his descendants, and every year on 19 December, the anniversary of Nyabela’s death, the Ndebele gather at Konomtjherelo to venerate their ancestors who had fought almost to the death in defence of their homeland.

  Africa’s version of Masada? An exact comparison is impossible, of course, because the circumstances differed. But decide for yourself. As a footnote to all this, it is interesting to remember that from 1979 to 1995 the lands once occupied by Nyabela’s people became part of KwaNdebele, one of the now-vanished autonomous ‘homelands’ created during the apartheid era. Then, like its ancestor, it was swallowed up again, this time into one of the new post-1994 provinces.

  Anyone for Christmas Pudding?

  ANYONE FOR

  CHRISTMAS PUDDING?

  Christmas has a deep and special meaning for many peoples and nations around the globe. For Christians it is a time of giving and a time of receiving – a special time, once a year, just three days after the summer solstice in the Southern Hemisphere and, to the North, three days after the winter solstice.

  The celebration of Christmas is a time of joy, yet also of quiet reflection. It is a moment in our busy lives when we stop and take stock of where we are and what we have done in the past year, and where we would like to go and what we would like to do in the year to come. It is a moment so deeply embedded that it can transcend even the worst of circumstances and, if only for a few hours, turn enemies into brothers, even during bitterly fought wars.

  This is no exaggeration. The best-remembered example of it is the famous Christmas truce of 1914 when German and British soldiers who had been locked in bitter combat spontaneously deserted their trenches and fraternised in no-man’s-land, singing carols and smoking one another’s cigarettes – all of them overwhelmed by having to spend such a special time away from the love and warmth of kith and kin.

  Because Christmas is somehow the worst time to be alone, it is no wonder that at this time the suicide rate goes off the charts. Even solitary human beings are gregarious by their very nature and at times like this loneliness can become unbearable.

  But there is an earlier example of a Christmas truce than the one of 1914 and it happened right here in South Africa, at Ladysmith in 1899 during the Second Anglo-Boer War.

  Ladysmith was under siege, completely surrounded by the swift-moving Boer commandos, with no immediate hope of relief. But now it was Christmas
Day and the British officers and men were determined to enjoy it, come what may, even though it was stinking hot rather than snowy and Ladysmith was ringed by artillery and deadly sharpshooters.

  So they turned out for sporting activities like tug-of-war, road running and boxing matches; music was supplied by mouth organs or all sorts of improvised instruments, and the drums and pipes of the Gordon Highlanders were firm favourites.

  A special fuss was made of the children who were plied with sweets, cakes, lemonade and ginger beer, and given presents that Cecil John Rhodes had managed to gather throughout the country. Queen Victoria herself sent a box of chocolates to each man of the Somersetshire Regiment (later the Somerset Light Infantry) and a message which read: ‘I wish you and all my brave soldiers a happy Christmas – may God protect and bless you all.’

  Then it happened. From the outskirts where the Boers lay, there was the unmistakeable deep bark of artillery, the wails of the shells and the thuds as they landed in the town.

  ‘You bastards – not on Christmas Day!’ shouted Regimental Sergeant-Major Bill Perrins as he held a small lad tightly under him for protection. Then something strange happened. There were no explosions. People held their breath. It was as if time had frozen. Still there was no explosion and no follow-up salvo.

  Carefully the engineers approached one of the shells embedded in the street. It had no fuze in its nose. Wondering, they took it apart. Inside the casing there was no bursting charge either. Instead it had been filled with Christmas pudding! It was the same with the other shells. One of them even had an inscription on the outside which read ‘with the complements of the season’.

  A cheer rang out and the soldiers and townspeople went back to their celebrations, secure in the knowledge that the war had been suspended, even if it was only for one day, and they sang Christmas carols and songs from home and danced the night away.

  If you ever have the time, leave the ‘lemming run’ of the N3 and turn onto the ‘Old Road’ to the coast. Try and imagine that you are travelling in a leisurely ox wagon rather than a swift motor car, and savour our wonderful country. If you do that you will pass through the lovely old town of Ladysmith, with its streets which are wide enough to allow a span of oxen to turn in them.

  The old Royal Hotel still dispenses hospitality, as it did on Christmas Day of 1899, and outside the siege museum across the street the siege guns called Castor and Pollux still wait to fight off a long-gone enemy. Go into the siege museum with your children for a look-see, and among the many interesting things there you will find the plum-pudding shells of Christmas Day, a lasting memento of Boer honour.

  Of Character and Courage – Japie Greyling

  OF CHARACTER AND COURAGE –

  JAPIE GREYLING

  When you are next on the N1 going south, do yourself a favour and turn off towards the little hamlet of Winburg. You will be in for a pleasant surprise, for there, nestled in the lee of tiny hills, lies a little town whose roots lie buried deep in the history of this land.

  Winburg is also the scene of one of the most famous stories of Boer heroism of the entire war … and the hero of the story is not some battle-hardened burgher with a beard, a battered Mauser and a bandolier of ammunition, but an unarmed 12-year-old boy named Japie Greyling.

  Japie’s act of courage became legend near the end of the first phase of the Second Anglo-Boer War when numerous commandos with thousands of men were harrying the British with all their might. One of the British soldiers involved was Captain the Hon JEB Seely, commander of a mounted squadron. One night a divisional intelligence member rousted him out of his uncomfortable bush-bed to give him some intriguing news.

  A reliable spy had reported that the commandant of the largest commando in the vicinity, a man of great skill and daring who was known to believe in fighting on even if Pretoria were captured, was visiting his wife and youngest son at a farm no more than 20 miles away.

  Seely sprang immediately into action. It was a risky enterprise, given the commandos in the vicinity, and the fact that the rough map Seely had gave only an approximate indication of where the farm lay. He decided to carry on and try to capture the commandant, however, hoping that one of his attached scouts would be able to find the way.

  Seely picked 20 men from his squadron of Horse and set out into the night, acutely aware of the fact that if he and his small raiding party ran into any of the commandos, it was all over for them.

  The farm turned out to be nearer 30 than 20 miles away, some of it over very rough terrain, and Seely’s would-be surprise attack failed. Just before they reached the farmhouse a little before dawn they saw three men gallop off to the left. Unfortunately for Seely his left flanking party had been delayed while crossing a stream, and the three men got clean away.

  Seely gave up the pursuit and returned to the farm, acutely conscious of the fact, as he wrote later, that ‘the hunters had become the hunted, and that unless we could find out where the commando lay, we were almost bound to be intercepted and killed or, worse still, captured.’

  At the farmhouse he found ‘an extraordinarily good-looking Dutch lad of about twelve years of age’ – none other than Japie Greyling – and in broken Afrikaans asked: ‘Who are you?’

  Japie replied: ‘I am the son of my father whom you failed to capture,’ and Seely found that ‘it was impossible not to admire the fearless demeanour of this South African boy, surrounded by 20 of his country’s enemies’.

  Seely asked Japie where his father’s commando was and ‘the boy bent his head down and looked straight at the ground while one might count 10, then he looked up slyly and said: “I do not think I can tell you that.”’

  Seely hardened his heart and said to the boy: ‘You must tell me, otherwise you will be shot.’

  Japie looked up and said: ‘No, I don’t think I can.’

  ‘I wonder if I did right,’ Seely wrote many years later. ‘Nothing on earth would have induced me to hurt a hair on the head of this gallant lad; but I think it was justifiable to attempt to terrify him into speaking the truth and so save the lives of my men.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if you won’t say, we’ll put you up against that wall and shoot you.’ He told his sergeant to assemble a firing party, whispering to him: ‘Of course, we won’t really shoot the boy.’

  Two of the soldiers put Japie up against a wall and another six knelt, rifles ready. Then Seely asked again where the commando was, Silently Japie shook his head – and Seely was treated to a display of cold courage that remained with him to the end of his life:

  I said to the sergeant: ‘Load!’ The six men loaded. ‘Ready!’ They brought their rifles to the ready. ‘Now,’ I said, ‘tell me quickly before they fire.’

  Then I saw one of the most beautiful things that I have ever seen in my life. The boy was transfigured by patriotism and devotion. He lifted his head, looked me straight in the face, put his hands behind his back and said in a loud, clear voice:

  ‘Ik sal nie sag.’ (I won’t say).

  I went forward, took the boy by the hand and said: ‘I hope one day we will meet again.’

  Seely and his men galloped away, and in spite of a running fight with some Boers managed to reach his unit. But ‘as long as I live I shall never forget that wonderful moment when love of father, home and country triumphed over imminent and apparently certain death; nor shall I forget the look in the face of that boy, as with head erect and glistening eyes he said: “Ik sal nie sag.”’

  After the war Seely returned to South Africa, determined to find the man who, as a little boy, had stared death unflinchingly in the face. It would have been nice to say that he found him, and that they became friends for life. But in spite of all his efforts he never set eyes on Japie Greyling again.

  This is the strange thing about the Anglo-Boer War. In spite of the appalling ‘scorched-earth’ policy there w
as a surprising amount of respect and sometimes even liking between the combatants, so that just 12 years later they were fighting shoulder to shoulder against the Kaiser’s Germans.

  Captain Seely went on to become a major-general, succeeded to his family’s title, and as Lord Mottistone occupied a succession of very high posts in government. But he never forgot that defining moment in his life when he came face to face with a lion-hearted Boer boy at a modest bushveld farmhouse.

  Monument to Danie Theron

  MONUMENT TO DANIE THERON

  If you travel down the N12 highway from Johannesburg en route to Kimberley, you will come to a small kopje to the left, and on top of it is a monument to Danie Theron. I remember as a child asking my parents: ‘Who was this Danie Theron?’ and was told that he was somebody who had died in the Anglo-Boer War.

  Later, as my thirst for knowledge of my country grew keener and my quest for history more acute, I dug up his story. So, for those of you who come across this strangely shaped monument opposite Anglo American’s Mponeng Mine and wonder about the story behind it is, here it is.

  In 1893 Danie Theron was a junior in a successful legal practice in the town of Krugersdorp (now known as Mogale City) – a serious young man, just starting out in life. There he met a young woman from Eikenhof named Johanna Neethling with whom he fell in love and whom he had every intention of marrying.

  There were obstacles to the courtship, particularly distance. His only means of transport was a bicycle and every weekend Danie would cycle the 26 miles – about 40 kilometres – to Eikenhof to be with her. Then, on the Sunday, he would cycle 40 kilometres back to Krugersdorp. It is quite amazing how there are no boundaries for a young man in love.