At the Fireside Page 13

  Then, during the latter part of the winter of 1898, Johanna fell ill with influenza. She did not take the correct care of herself; the flu quickly turned into pneumonia and on 28 August she was laid to rest in Eikenhof’s small cemetery. What made this even more tragic was that her sister Henrietta, who was also suffering from pneumonia, died in the same bed later that day.

  Danie was shattered at having the love of his life torn so abruptly from him. Some say he never really recovered, and this might go some of the way towards explaining what happened on 5 September 1900, just eight days after the second anniversary of Johanna’s death.

  Almost a year earlier the Second Anglo-Boer War had broken out and among the thousands of citizen-soldiers reporting for duty had been Danie Theron, a staunch Transvaaler who was not willing to see the republic surrender its freedom to anyone on Earth.

  At first there had been a string of Boer victories. But inevitably the mighty fist of the British Empire started to close around the little republic. By now the sieges of Mafeking and Ladysmith had been lifted and the Boer capitals of Bloemfontein and Pretoria captured, and the war had settled into the grim guerrilla phase which would last for almost two years. Mobile Boer commandos dodged and staged hit-and-run attacks, doggedly pursued by British columns.

  By this time Danie Theron’s was a name to be conjured with. The young lawyer had become a daring scout whose exploits were the stuff of legend. This day he was out on yet another reconnaissance which was why he was on the summit of the kopje with his binoculars, sweeping the area around him for signs of British movement.

  And then he saw a whole British convoy under Major-General John French marching to Johannesburg along the dirt road on whose bones today’s N12 was built. At what exactly went through his mind when he saw the long khaki column we can, of course, only guess.

  Some of his thoughts were angry ones at the invasion of his country, one could surmise, and perhaps there was a war-weariness in him after so many months of stubborn resistance against a remorselessly unstoppable foe; perhaps also an upwelling of his never-forgotten grief over Johanna. Perhaps it was a combination of all three.

  Whatever the case, Danie Theron made a fateful decision. He was not going to run away. He was going to stand and fight in spite of odds so great that there could be only one end. He scouted the kopje for vantage points, placing ammunition at various places and made his plans. He would fire, drop down and run, unencumbered by the weight of all his cartridges, to the next vantage point. There he would do the same and move on again.

  It is a fair guess that while he waited for the column to come within rifle-shot he spent some time in reflection, coming to terms with his decision, beseeching the Almighty to give him strength and courage for the ordeal that lay ahead, and visiting the memory of Johanna for the last time. Then he fed cartridges into his Mauser rifle’s magazine, checked the sights – there is a certain technique to firing downhill – and waited.

  That it would be an uneven struggle was not to be doubted. That Danie Theron was likely to be able to inflict numerous casualties before being overcome was not to be doubted either. The British soldier of the late 19th century was drilled to deliver a high volume of fire, but not much attention was paid to his personal marksmanship, whereas most Boer lads of that era started learning to shoot straight from the time that they were two bricks and a tickey high as we South Africans say.

  Typically they would pick out a tree or rock for a target, pace off 25 metres and then turn, aim and fire, using as sights nothing more than their thumbs placed on the barrel. They would then pace off another 25 metres and do the same thing, and so on.

  Practise like that almost daily for 10 years of your life and you were almost guaranteed to become an expert shot. Then, armed with a 7 mm Mauser – a superbly accurate combination of rifle and cartridge which is still a favourite with hunters to this day – and you become a formidable opponent indeed.

  The column marched on towards Johannesburg as Theron lay down and aimed. He let their front scouts pass by, blissfully unaware of the danger, and waited for the main body to come within comfortable range. Then he took careful aim and fired. His target went down as he ducked away and ran to his next position. There he fired again, and another Tommy crumpled into the dust. Again he moved to a new position. Down below, the column had halted by now and officers were shouting: ‘Take cover!’ Theron kept firing, moving and firing again, so that the British thought that they had been ambushed by a whole party of Boers.

  It is estimated that Danie Theron killed between 15 and 20 Englishmen before the British brought up their artillery pieces, quick-firers and machine guns which wreaked such havoc on the kopje’s summit that not one tree remained standing.

  When the guns fell silent and the smoke and dust cleared away the British soldiers cautiously started climbing the kopje, but there was no need to be careful. Danie Theron was dead, killed by shrapnel from one of the bursting shells.

  When they reached the top they were astonished to find that the enemy had consisted of just one young man, and it is said that they doffed their helmets as a mark of respect for such a brave but foolish warrior. They did not know his story.

  Today, if you visit the now lonely and somewhat dilapidated cemetery at Eikenhof, you will find young Danie Theron’s rather impressive tombstone next to that of Johanna Neethling, his beloved bride that never was.

  Later the Boers erected the monument to their fallen hero on the kopje … and, by the way, its strange shape is not strange at all if you know what it is – a magnified depiction of the trigger-guard of a Mauser rifle like the one Danie Theron used that day in his final action against the invaders of his country.

  Diamonds and Blood

  DIAMONDS AND BLOOD

  During its gold-digging days the sleepy Eastern Transvaal, now Mpumalanga, abruptly became one of the roughest and toughest places on earth. Its history overshadows that of most gold rushes. The ‘Forty-Niners’ of San Francisco, the diggers of the Tundra gold rush in the frozen glades of the Northern Yukon Territories, not to mention the delvers of the Jagersfontein and Kimberley diamond rushes all have their stories, but for the most part they pale by comparison with the likes of Blyde River, Mac Mac, Pilgrims’ Rest, Barberton and Eureka City.

  Really? Well, listen to this one, starring Phillipus Jacobus Swartz. Swartz had been a ‘Zarp’, a ZAR policeman, but by September 1900 he was on commando against the British with Commandant Ben Viljoen. He and a companion, Christoffel Pretorius, had become detached from the main body of the commando, and when they reached the Portuguese border, they turned and rode back westwards towards Pietersburg to rejoin their comrades, keeping body and soul together by shooting for the pot and drinking from the rivers.

  One day they came across the skeleton of a man. This was not a particularly unusual sight in the remote bushveld, but what was definitely not usual was the fact that 10 leather bags were buckled around the skeleton’s waist. The man’s pocket book gave up his name and the fact that he had spent time on the Barberton, Kimberley and Pilgrim’s Rest diggings.

  Proof that this was so they discovered when they opened the bags – and found that three were crammed full of diamonds and the others with alluvial gold nuggets. Swartz and Pretorius considered the situation. If they handed the bags in, the nuggets and diamonds would become the property of the ZAR government … and these were highly uncertain times in which a man had to look after himself.

  So they chose a spot near the Blyde River, buried the bags and used the surrounding trees and the shadows cast by the sun to make sure the site was firmly implanted in their brains. Then they set out for Pietersburg again, knowing that their little nest egg would see them through whatever else happened.

  Soon after this, however, they were involved in a skirmish with the British. In the ensuing shootout Pretorius was killed while Swartz was taken prisoner and shipped off
to Ceylon for the rest of the war. There he stayed, cherishing the secret of the gold and diamonds – all his now since Pretorius was dead.

  Early in 1903 Swartz returned to the Rand, desperate to retrieve his treasure. But getting there was an almost insuperable problem. He was destitute, with barely enough money to pay his fare to the railhead, and travelling further through malarial, lion-infested country would cost money that he simply did not have.

  In desperation he confided in a cab driver named Fanie van Niekerk, an acquaintance with whom he was boarding in Johannesburg’s Fordsburg. Swartz set to work to excite Van Niekerk’s enthusiasm, although he was careful not to tell him exactly where the treasure was buried.

  He succeeded, and Van Niekerk introduced him to one Joseph van Dyk. They met at Van Niekerk’s house, and after Van Dyk had been let in on the secret he promised to approach some trustworthy friends who would be able to provide a cart, mules, and arms and ammunition.

  Several days later, Van Dyk’s friends – James Colville and his brother William – made their appearance, and a deal was struck. They would leave for the bushveld on 4 May, and when they had dug up the gold and diamonds there would be an equal split.

  Swartz’s long-cherished dreams of great wealth came boiling to the surface as they prepared to leave, and he became ever more boastful and excited. Van Niekerk was just as excited, vowing to abandon his cab-driving and buy a farm with his share.

  Van Niekerk’s wife Anna now became worried. She distrusted Swartz, whom she had known for years as a selfish and unscrupulous man. A passing remark from Swartz two days before the treasure-seekers left – that Anna should prepare for widowhood because the wild animals would probably devour her husband in the bushveld – did nothing to calm her fears.

  The expedition duly reached Pietersburg, headed from there to Leydsdorp, once the principal gold-diggers’ township in the Lowveld, and then trekked deeper into the bushveld till, on 17 May, Swartz told them that they were within two hours’ ride of the treasure. They set up camp near the river, and Van Niekerk and Swartz went off to dig for water in the riverbed and collect extra wood for the nightly fire while the others prepared the evening meal.

  Half an hour later Van Dyk, Donovan and Colville heard two rifle shots, followed by a short pause and then three more. They were not concerned, thinking that the two men had shot something for the pot. But after an hour neither Swartz nor Van Niekerk had returned. It was pitch-dark now, so they built up the fire to increase visibility and fired shots at intervals, the standard bushveld procedure for guiding lost travellers back to camp.

  Then at nine o’clock Swartz suddenly appeared, alone; he and Van Niekerk had become separated, he said. There was no more to be done that night, but the following morning they all went looking for the missing man. At 11.30 they climbed a ridge and Swartz scanned the countryside through his binoculars, pointed to a distant lone kopje and said: ‘You go that way, and I’ll pick up some other landmarks. I’m sure I’ll get my bearings now.’

  The others fell in with this suggestion, although it was never a good idea to separate in the trackless Lowveld bush, and struck out in various directions. Occasionally Van Dyk or the Colvilles would shout out, hoping for a reply. But there was none, and after a few hours they gave up the search as a bad job and camped for the night, feeding their fire till it leapt 10 yards into the air. There was no sign of either Swartz or Van Niekerk, however.

  Next morning they returned to their camp on the Blyde River. They found a smouldering fire and saw that some provisions, clothing and ammunition were missing. Then they found a note pinned to one wheel of the cart. It was signed ‘SP van Niekerk’ and said: ‘This day I have started for Johannesburg.’ So Van Niekerk had turned back, just as Swartz had predicted he would!

  They spent several more days looking vainly for Swartz, then gave up and set off back to Leydsdorp. On the way they found traces of a campfire and some bootprints, and then, when they reached the Makoetsi River, they saw a white man drinking from it. It was none other than Swartz, famished and tattered.

  He told them that he had lost them at the kopje; he had struck out across the veld and followed the Blyde River till he reached the treasure cache, had taken some of the diamonds and reburied the rest to be retrieved later. But then he had taken the wrong direction, and for days had been wandering about, existing on mielies he had begged from the local kraals while he tried to find the shortest route back to Leydsdorp.

  They told him about the note they had found at the camp and asked to see the diamonds to prove his story, but he replied: ‘I’m sorry, I can’t show you the diamonds – I’ve lost them.’ With that they had to be satisfied and on 22 May they arrived at Leydsdorp only to find that Van Niekerk had not passed through. The Van Dyk party reported Van Niekerk’s disappearance there and at Pietersburg, then made their way back to Johannesburg.

  There they called on Anna van Niekerk only to find that her husband had not returned. Angrily she accused them of deserting Van Niekerk, and in turn they accused him of being a thief. A highly upset Anna now went to the Johannesburg police and reported the whole story to the CID.

  Meanwhile, unaware of what she had done, Swartz organised a second expedition to recover the treasure, with much the same result: the party camped at the Makoetsi River, Swartz went out with one, Potgieter, to reconnoitre, then returned alone. The expedition then returned to Leydsdorp where Swartz was arrested and thrown into gaol while a police search of the original camping spot was launched, with Detective Charles Rees being guided by Swartz’s erstwhile companion, James Colville.

  Before too long they found a spade, then a helmet with bullet holes in it and finally two shoulder blades. They also found the stock of a shotgun protruding from the bush. When they took it out it proved to be Van Niekerk’s. Both barrels were still loaded and, since he had not taken extra ammunition with him, he could not have fired the shots the others had heard. They also found spent cartridge cases which been ejected from a rifle and appeared to be the right size for the bullets that had holed Van Niekerk’s helmet.

  That was enough for the police and in due course Swartz found himself in the dock, charged with murder. After many days of legal wrangling between the prosecution and the defence, the case went to the jury which had no difficulty in returning a verdict of guilty. A plea for clemency was rejected and at 16 minutes past six on the brisk morning of 15 February 1904 Swartz was hanged by the neck. His last words were: ‘I’m innocent.’

  Perhaps, perhaps not. But the real question is this: Is there really a fortune in diamonds and gold lying buried somewhere on the northern bank of the Blyde River? And if so, where?

  The Pride of a Nation

  THE PRIDE OF A NATION

  One of the many things that saddens me deeply is that so many of the incidents and happenings in our country in times gone by were never written down, and – particularly among the tribes – survived only through stories that were handed down from generation to generation. Thus they were saved for future generations although it is so that inevitably such stories tend to undergo subtle changes as they are passed down.

  The story I am going to relate is one such re-telling, passed on to me by a Zulu historian.

  At the start of the Second Anglo-Boer War in 1899, the historian told me, a young married Boer girl named Maria was living on a farm just outside the little town of Zastron in the old Orange Free State Republic. She had been married for only 10 months, but her husband was away on commando and she and her maidservant, named Sabrina, were quite alone on the farm except for the workers.

  Times were hard and the two young women struggled to keep the farm going. Then things got even harder when the British Army started to apply the infamous ‘scorched-earth’ policy to cut off the commandos’ food supplies; the farm workers told her that the British were on the way to raze the farm to the ground, and then fled.

&nbs
p; Maria and Sabrina concealed themselves in a freshly dug pit covered with sheets of corrugated iron and there they remained until the farm’s buildings had been reduced to ashes and the soldiers had marched away. At nightfall the two women set out on foot for the Maluti mountains. But the British were still in the area, looking for people fleeing the ruined farms, and it is said that at daybreak a Scottish soldier found them in a cave where they had taken refuge.

  Maria begged him to leave them alone, saying they meant no harm to anyone, and the Scot’s heart softened because he remembered how his own countrymen had hidden in the mountains when the English had subjugated Scotland in the 18th century. So he rode away and reported to his commander that the cave was empty, and Maria and Sabrina were able to escape across the border into Basutoland as Lesotho was then called. They struggled across the Malutis, passed through Moyeni and Ongeluksnek, and eventually arrived at the little hamlet of Matatiele on the other side of the mountains.

  Sabrina was a trained inyanga, or herbal healer, and they began to make a living preparing traditional medicines from the herbs, plants and trees in the surrounding area. It was a meagre living at first, but before long they became well known throughout the district for their healing powers.

  People tend to be suspicious about things they do not understand and before long a local Dutch Reformed preacher named Oosthuizen started preaching against her from his pulpit, saying that the two women possessed the powers of the Devil, and that people must desist from consulting her. But many members of his congregation ignored him and in time, as fate would have it, he himself came down with a serious illness. There were few or no doctors in the remote rural areas in those days and the only people with the knowledge to tend to him were Maria and Sabrina – much to the quiet amusement of some members of his congregation.