We were sorry to leave him, and I remember looking back as we climbed
the hill road to see him looking wistfully after us.

The roads were so bad that we had to walk, and it was not until the
third day that we reached Mbabane, the official capital of Swaziland.
This is about fifteen miles over the border, and the village is on the
top of a low mountain. Mbabane is the new capital of Swaziland and was
founded in 1904. The old capital, Bremersdorp, was destroyed by our
people during the Boer War.

The long slopes leading up to the village are nearly all covered with
plantations, which have been laid out by Robert L. Dickson, head of
the Swaziland Trading Company. The settlement is a most picturesque
and charming place, and there are a number of pleasant English people
dwelling there. These white families live very well, and I can safely
say that Mbabane is the most delightful place in that whole section of
the Transvaal.

Mr. Dickson is a remarkable character who has lived in South Africa
practically all his life. He is now about sixty-five years old, and no
visit to Mbabane is complete without at least one cup of tea with him
and his wife. Mrs. Dickson is a lovable old lady whose chief worries
seem to consist of guarding her vegetable plantation and finding her
glasses.

The morning we called on Mr. Dickson, she came in and asked if he had
seen those errant glasses. His eyes twinkled when he answered, "No, my
dear, but I'm sure you'll find them in the cabbage patch!" She had
been there during the morning and his guess was correct, for one of
the black boys found the glasses draped over a young and hopeful
cabbage.

Of course Mr. Dickson invited us to dinner, and this led to a typical
and amusing incident. Mrs. Dickson ordered her cook to prepare some
chickens for the meal, and the cook sent some of the Swazi servants to
get the fowls.

Now a friend of mine, John Pythian, engineer at the tin mines nearby,
lived next door to the Dicksons. He was a chicken fancier and had some
very fine birds. As luck or indolence would have it, Mrs. Dickson's
servants caught some of his chickens instead of her own. Pythian's
servant reported this to him--he was still in bed at the time--and he
instructed his boy to tell Mrs. Dickson's Swazis to return the chickens.

Stronger in courage than judgment, the boy attacked the enemy and
there was a battle. It was short, however, because Mrs. Dickson heard
the row and chased Pythian's boy away. By the time he reported to his
master, the chickens were slain. Pythian then sent his boy to get the
native police, and these soon arrived.

Mrs. Dickson protested and argued that her boys were innocent, but
about this time, Mr. Honey, British Royal Commissioner for Swaziland,
came on the scene in all his majesty. He held an impromptu court and
heard both sides of the case. After deliberation, in which we all
tried to assist him, he delivered his verdict.

"From the evidence I judge that Mrs. Dickson's boys are innocent in
that they did not realize they were killing Mr. Pythian's chickens,"
he said. "However, the chickens have been killed on the order of Mrs.
Dickson, so I think the only thing to do is to arrest Mrs. Dickson!"

Whereupon Mrs. Dickson became indignant and demanded that the
commissioner carry out his sentence.

"If he does," she said threateningly, "I can guarantee that the High
Commissioner for Swaziland is going to feel very low in his mind
before I invite him to dinner again!"

Thus the chicken-stealing ended in a joke, and Pythian was one of the
gayest at dinner that night. He remarked, however, that it was no
wonder that the roast chicken was so choice, since the birds had been
imported all the way from some place in India!

During the meal I sat next to the Commissioner and brought up the
question of the crowning of the new Swazi king. I wanted to find out
what the government thought about it before I made final arrangements
at Zombode.

"There seems to be a difference of opinion regarding this pup,
Sebuza," he said. "It looks as though there might be a row either
before or soon after he is made king. Of course he is the heir to the
job, so there can be no good reason for keeping him out. However,
Labotsibeni has been a steady old girl and has kept fairly good order
around Zombode, and it's a shame we can't keep her. But she's over one
hundred years old, and now Lomwazi seems to be fairly running
Swaziland. Sebuza will have to be king some day, but it will be good
policy to maintain present conditions as long as possible. We have
peace now, and I'd dislike to see anything happen that might start a
war."

I could see that the Commissioner was none too anxious to have Sebuza
take over the throne. This suited me, for I knew that it would be some
time before I was equipped with the right outfit to take the pictures
I was after. If Sebuza's coronation could be put off for a year, it
would suit me even better.

All the white residents of Mbabane treated us with the greatest
kindness and hospitality. They could not do too much for us. There are
a number of interesting things about the settlement. It is essentially
a little English village set down in the heart of the most primitive
and savage principality of the empire. Like all the rest of the
English who exile themselves from home, these people had brought a
little bit of the motherland with them.

The jail, or "gaol," as they insist on writing it, is an institution
in Mbabane, but I must say there is not much punishment about it. The
prisoners wear the convict garb, but you meet them all over the
village. They are usually working in the gardens, and I have often run
across them three and four miles from their penitential abode. No
prisoner has ever been known to escape; perhaps the regular food has
something to do with this.

There are a number of interesting characters who live in Mbabane year
in and year out. One of these is Allister Miller, a man of remarkable
personality, energy, and business ability. He has several immense
ranches and owns more than fifty thousand head of fine cattle. His
bulls have been imported from all over the world and his cattle have
made him a very rich man. Swaziland is an ideal stock-raising country
and it is estimated that the Swazis themselves own more than three
hundred thousand head of cattle.

Probably the most interesting character in Mbabane is known to every
one as "Matt." He is an accountant by profession. His nose has made
him famous, and I am sure there is not another like it in the whole
world. It is immense in size and has all the vivid tints of the
"rum-nose" that distinguishes the confirmed tippler. All strangers are
advised to see Matt's nose or count their visit to Mbabane a rank
failure.

There are a number of stories about him, one of the best being about
his experience as an inmate of the gaol. It seems that he was
accountant for a trading company and had made a mess of its books.
Money was missing and he could not account for it. Although it was
felt that he had not taken it, yet he was responsible and was
sentenced to gaol for six months. Now the warden of the gaol trusted
Matt and put him to work on the books. In addition, he used to loan
Matt to do little jobs of carpentering and painting at houses in the
village. This led to trouble. The little tin shanty, by courtesy "The
Hotel," was much like some of the saloons in the "cow towns" of the
old West in the United States. Ranchers, traders, and adventurers
would congregate there and tell stories while they drank gin, whiskey,
and combinations of the same. Matt was in the habit of passing the
"hotel" each evening on his return to the gaol, and soon the
roisterers began inviting him in to have a drink or two.

One night there was a particularly joyous party, and Matt drank so
much that he forgot to return to the gaol on time. It was midnight
before he got there, and the jailer had already gone to bed. Matt went
to his house and woke him, and this annoyed the official very much. So
much so, in fact, that he refused to get up and let Matt into the
gaol. Matt was reduced to the ignominy of returning to the hotel and
bunking there. Next morning he made a charge against the jailer for
not allowing him to serve out his sentence! Commissioner Honey
discharged him and reprimanded the jailer for neglect of duty.

Some years before Snyman had been postmaster at Mbabane and had made
many friends, with the result that he had a most enjoyable visit. The
morning we left to continue our trek to Zombode he was approached by
Manaan, an old Swazi chief, who wanted to shake hands with him. Manaan
was a typical kaffir, and Snyman told me a story about him which well
illustrates the characteristics of the breed.

"When I was at the post-office here," Snyman said, "Manaan and some of
his sons went to the Transvaal to work in the gold mines. According to
the law, their money was deposited for them in the savings-bank at
Johannesburg, and the whole amount was put in the name of the old
chief. I was still postmaster when Manaan and his sons returned to
Swaziland.

"One morning I was very busy when I saw Manaan standing at the door.
Of course he would not enter until I spoke to him. I grunted at the
old boy and he came in, with the usual 'Nkoos!' and his hands flung
up. He stood at the counter for a while, waiting for me to speak to him.

"Finally I asked, 'Ou funaan?' which means 'What do you want?'

"'Ou funa mali!' he answered, meaning 'I want some money.'

"Then the old boy walked over to the corner of the room and sat down.
From the top of his majuba, or loin-cloth, he produced a little bundle
wrapped in an abundance of dirty rags and tied with some leather
thongs. Then he knelt down, as is the custom of the Swazis, and
proceeded to spread out the contents of the bundle.

"When he unwrapped the outer cover there was another and yet another,
the last covering being the hide of some small animal. After this was
undone there was a paper wrapping, and inside this was his savings
account deposit book! This he presented to me with pride.

"'Ou shiai intzinga; ou funa mali,' he said, which meant 'Telegraph to
the place where this money is deposited; I want to draw it.'

"'Lunglli,' I replied; 'wati nalie e'lali bapa ou buia mfigo uti zouk
mali,' which meant, 'When the sun is over there come back and I will
give you the money.'

"I thought I would get a reply by sunset, and Manaan arrived promptly
after I had heard from Johannesburg. He entered on my recognition,
stacked his knob-kerrie, shield, and assegai in the corner, and came
up to the counter.

"I counted out the money to him. There were twenty-four pounds, and
ten shillings for interest. This I had to explain to him, and when he
understood that it was a gift he spent the next ten minutes in
praising the white men. He was so accustomed to being taxed and paying
for everything that to get these extra ten shillings was a shock.

"Manaan then went over to his corner, knelt down, and counted the
money over six or seven times. He would take it up, examine it, and
put it down again and again. He seemed fascinated by the sovereigns.
Finally he gathered it up and walked over to the counter. Piling it up
in front of me, he said:

"'E'musla implea mene bonela e'begga panzi!' which means 'Very nice
indeed! I have had a look at it; it is wonderful! Now please put it
away again!'

"I felt like a fool. I had cancelled his account, and now the old
nuisance wanted to re-open it and put his money in the bank again. But
of course I did it. All Manaan wanted was to see and feel his money,
so that he would be sure it was still there!"

CHAPTER XII

I meet Labotsibeni again--Flattering a savage queen--Explaining the
"little black magic box"--Curing rheumatism with tooth-paste,
vaseline, and hair oil--Women as currency--Gin, gold, and cows pay for
the picture rights--The "flu" strikes--Jennie, the "blaau app", and
the peacocks' tails.

From Mbabane it is only a short distance to the top of the mountain
from which the descent is made into Ezulweni, the beautiful Valley of
Heaven. As we reached the top I pointed out Sheba's Breasts and the
Place of Execution to my companions. These peaks could be seen far off
to the right, where the sun picked them out in the early morning mist.

Coming down the mountain was hard work, the grade being one in four at
many places. We walked, because it would only have made it harder for
the mules if we had kept our seats in the wagonette. At the bottom of
the steep trail stands the place of Harry Niles, an old-time trader
who has settled down there. He has a picturesque little home and has
surrounded the house with banana trees, papayas, and semi-tropical
fruits. Niles is a charming old man who retired from active business
to live out his remaining years in this garden spot. He has no
interest in outside affairs and lives an ideal existence, if one likes
that sort of thing. His likes and dislikes are quickly expressed, and
this is probably one of the reasons that make him contented with his
life of isolation. If he likes you, however, he can be more hospitable
than any one I know. He will feed you with the most delicious salads,
fresh meat, and other delicacies, and there is always something rare
to drink. His salads are famous, so that his few friends in Mbabane
often make the hard trek to his little home to share one of them.

Coming into the Valley of Heaven from Mbabane, instead of from
Rietvlei, made it a much shorter distance to Zombode. We wanted to get
there as soon as possible, since we had already been delayed by the
wretched weather, so we only had a drink with Niles and then pushed
on. He told me that he had heard that the Swazis were getting ready to
acknowledge Sebuza as king, but he had no definite information about it.

"What's more," he added, "I don't give a damn! Just so long as these
royal niggers keep out of my way I'll keep out of theirs. They know
better than to bother me, and it makes no difference to me who is king!"

Shortly before we came in sight of Zombode, Oom Tuys came riding down
the trail. A Swazi runner had brought word that we were coming, and my
uncle had come out to meet me. I was very glad to see him and he was
as cheerful as ever. He told me that he had had no difficulty in
getting into Swaziland, as he had come in through Komatipoort, but he
understood that word had gone to Mbabane that he was at Zombode and he
wanted to cut his stay as short as possible.

"It is a shame that the great British Empire should hound one poor
lone Boer trader," he said, his eyes twinkling, "and I feel very much
afraid. I hate to disturb the peace of mind of the High Commissioner,
so I don't want to stay here any longer than necessary."

Then he began to plan with me how to get our business over as quickly
as possible. I had not been to Swaziland since my youth, and things
were different now. Instead of our being met by a welcoming party of
indunas, only a few curious savages and a horde of children came out
to watch us arrive. The former proud formality of the royal kraal
seemed lacking, and when I asked Tuys about it he explained that since
Queen Labotsibeni had become blind "the old customs had gone to seed."

There was still one formality about seeing her, however. This
consisted of announcing your presence by sending her a bottle of gin
and then waiting until she sent for you. Tuys explained to me that the
old queen was terribly vain and desired, above all things, to be
flattered. She liked to pretend that she could still see, and Tuys
warned me under no circumstances to admit that I thought she could not.

"You want to look out for Lomwazi, my boy," he added. "He has more
brains than all the rest put together and is a very wily devil. He
never leaves the side of the old queen, and she can't say a word that
he doesn't hear. Look out for him!"

He also advised me to keep my eye on Debeseembie, a brother of Lomwazi
and the favorite son of the old queen. Debeseembie was another
faithful watchdog of the royal hut and was always somewhere around.

This was the first time I had seen Labotsibeni since I was a little
boy, hence I was keenly interested in her apart from the fact that I
hoped to obtain her permission to take pictures of Sebuza's
coronation. It is well to observe here that I use the word
"coronation" for lack of a better term. The Swazi king wears no crown,
and I suppose the right but awkward phrase would be to speak of
Sebuza's "induction as king."

Lomwazi came out to meet us as we entered the royal kraal and readily
agreed to convey the gin-present to his royal mistress. When I slipped
him a bottle for himself, his haughty expression immediately became
one of joy. A little gin goes a long way with the Swazis.

In a very short time he returned and said that the queen would see us.
In addition to the present sent ahead when an interview is desired
with the queen, it is also proper etiquette to leave a present when
the interview is over. Knowing this, I took along a present--that is,
another bottle of gin.

Now the royal kraal at Zombode was built with a little kraal inside
the main one, and in the middle of that was Labotsibeni's reception
hall or audience chamber. This was the most unusual building in
Swaziland. It had brick walls about four feet high and was about ten
by fifteen feet in size. The arched grass roof was about head high in
the middle, but one had to stoop low to enter, because the three
openings were only the height of the brick wall. No one has ever
explained how these bricks came to Zombode. There are no bricks in
Swaziland and it struck me as extraordinary that I should see them
there.

Lomwazi led us to the reception hut and we waited for him to announce
us. I could see Labotsibeni lying on a mat in the center of the floor
with a number of her women and warriors about her. She seemed very fat
and huge, and very very old.

"Nkosikaas! All powerful Queen of Swaziland," Lomwazi chanted. "Oom
Tuys and Mzaan Bakoor, great white indunas, have come to see you. They
bring presents and would be overjoyed forever if you would look upon
them and accept their great tribute!"

Some of this was true, but all of it was the proper sort of thing at
Zombode. Labotsibeni listened intently, and when her vizier finished
she spoke in her old cracked voice:

"Tell my white sons that I am proud to welcome them to Swaziland and
will grant them an audience."

Thereupon we entered the hut. There were at least a dozen
maids-of-honor attending the old queen, and several of these spread
mats for us to sit on. Some of these women were working on freshly
tanned hides from which they were fashioning skirts, and the odor of
the skins tainted the air of the hut. I am accustomed to this smell
and do not find it unpleasant, but both Snyman and Biddy soon had all
of it they could stand.

The old queen lay on her stomach with her head propped up by her
hands. Within easy reach was a pile of leaves, and at intervals she
would take one of these, wipe her lips and fingers with it, and thrust
it through the open doorway. Her hands were small and beautifully
shaped and her nails were spotlessly clean and perfectly manicured.
Later I learned that her maids spent hours taking care of her hands,
their only tools for manicuring the royal nails being bits of broken
bottle-glass.

Remembering Tuys's warning, I complimented her on her looks, beautiful
hands, and the cleanliness of her hut and kraal. I told her that her
royal abode was an example for all the other native kings of the
Transvaal and generally explained to her what a superior person she
was. She listened intently to my flattery and appreciated it greatly.

Near her was the bottle of gin we had sent ahead. It was more than
half finished and she took a drink while I was delivering my
flattering oration. She reached for the bottle and Debeseembie
assisted her to get the drink by pouring out more than half an earthen
mug full of the fiery liquid. With one swallow she gulped it down, and
then almost choked. This gave me my cue, and I told her how moderate
she was and how refined in her way of drinking gin.

"Why, Nkosikaas, if I were to give Jafta, king of the Mapors, a bottle
of gin," I said, "he wouldn't stop drinking until he had finished it,
and then he would soon become drunk. Whereas, you, with your royal
daintiness and delicacy, drink your gin like a queen!"

This thought pleased her much and she thereupon took another drink,
which practically emptied the bottle. Of course I do not know that she
had consumed the first half of that bottle, but she certainly drank
enough in our presence to intoxicate any normal person. It was
strange, but it did not seem to have much effect on her. When she
spoke and drank, I noticed that her teeth were perfect. This, at the
age of more than one hundred years, is a great tribute to the Swazi
custom of cleaning the teeth with charcoal or sand after each meal.

There was nothing private about our interview. While we talked indunas
came and went and the women were always in the hut. In addition, both
Lomwazi and Debeseembie were on hand all the time. After we had
exhausted all our compliments and small talk, Tuys broached the
subject of permission to take pictures of Sebuza's coronation.

Here we ran against what seemed to be an insuperable obstacle. It was
impossible to make either the queen or Lomwazi understand what I
wanted. They had no conception whatever of what a photograph meant and
motion-pictures were entirely beyond their comprehension. Both Tuys
and I tried in every way to make them understand, but it was hopeless.
Finally I decided that the only thing to do would be to take a picture
of Lomwazi or the old queen and show Lomwazi what I was talking about.

I persuaded him to get Labotsibeni to allow herself to be carried
outside the hut into the sunlight, and there I took a picture of her.
Then I photographed Lomwazi, Debeseembie, and a group of others. I
explained to them that I would show them the pictures the next day, as
I hoped to have them developed and printed by that time. After the
picture-taking we went back inside the hut, and then the old queen
became more friendly and told me her troubles. It seems she suffered
with rheumatism in the shoulders and back. This was due to the fact
that her upper body was usually bare and that she laid in the draught
between the openings of the hut. When cold, she would cover herself
with a magnificent fur rug, but this did not help her rheumatism much.

On hearing of her aches and pains, Tuys's evil genius gave him an
inspiration and he proceeded to get me into a pretty pickle.

"Nkosikaas, you are in great good luck that we came to see you," he
told her. "Mzaan Bakoor is a great white witch-doctor and makes the
muti (medicine) that cures such pains as you have. He will make the
muti for you and will cure you!"

Labotsibeni appeared much cheered by this suggestion. I was not,
however. I had no medicines with me and would gladly have kicked Tuys
for making the offer. Shortly after this we left the queen, with the
understanding that I was going to make the medicine that would cure
her rheumatism and would bring it to her as soon as it was ready.

When we got back to our camp I blessed Tuys with a real Boer outburst
of profanity.

"Why, Tuys, we'll make the old lady think that we are the worst sort
of fakirs," I told him. "She won't grant me the right to take the
pictures when she finds out that we have fooled her. You have made a
fine mess of things!"

But Tuys laughed and laughed and laughed. He thought it was one of the
funniest situations he had ever seen. Looking back at it, I can see
the humor of it, but at that time I did not find it amusing. Tuys told
me I would have to go through with it and produce medicine that would
at least make his word good. So I went to work. All I had with me were
some toilet necessities. The "muti" was compounded at length, and this
is the way the prescription read: Two ounces each of tooth-paste,
vaseline, and hair-tonic. These I beat up until they were a loose
paste and then placed them in a glass jar bearing a very vivid label.
This jar had held my photographic chemicals.

With impressive solemnity we returned and presented the muti to the
queen. Then I explained the treatment. Her maids were to take cloth
soaked in hot water and apply it to the aching parts until she could
stand it no longer. Then small portions of the muti were to be
thoroughly rubbed in until the pains departed.

[Illustration: QUEEN LABOTSIBENI, MOTHER OF KING BUNO

During Sebuza's infancy and boyhood, the throne receded to Queen
Labotsibeni, his grandmother. She was blind and more than one hundred
years old]

[Illustration: LOMWAZI AND HIS COUNCIL OF INDUNAS, OR WAR CHIEFS]

All this impressed Labotsibeni, but she insisted that the "great white
witch-doctor" apply the treatment. I had to do it--that is, if I
wanted to keep her favor. For an hour I massaged the old woman, and
when the last of the muti was rubbed in she announced that her pains
were gone and promptly fell asleep. The hot cloth, as I had guessed,
took the aches out of her shoulders and back and the villainous muti
bluffed her into a cure, which was good for the time being at least.
It was a fine piece of chicanery for a graduate of two of the greatest
medical colleges to have to practice, but it did the trick!

Next morning we went to the royal hut as soon as we were sent for. The
same gin ritual had to be followed, and we found the old queen quite
happy and a trifle under the influence of the liquor. The pictures had
turned out well, and Lomwazi was amazed to see himself in all his
barbaric beauty. He is one of the strongest men in Swaziland and is
very vain concerning his athletic prowess. One of his greatest sports
is to wrestle with any one who will stand up to him, and he seldom
loses. Hence, when he saw himself in the pictures, he felt very proud.
Immediately he christened the camera "the white man's magic" and told
Labotsibeni all about it. I watched this talk, and it was pathetic.
Lomwazi explained as best he could what we had done and then handed
his mother the picture of herself, telling her to look at it. She held
it close to her eyes, and then said:

"The white man's little black box is very wonderful! It must be a good
magic or my son would not recommend it so highly."

If she had been able to see, she might have remarked that the picture
was a remarkably good likeness. It was the only time she was ever
photographed, and it seemed a shame that the old queen could not
appreciate it.

Again we brought up the question of permission to take the coronation
pictures. I explained that we wanted to do the same with Sebuza as we
had done with them. This seemed to be all right, and we were getting
nearer our goal when Lomwazi brought up the question of paying for the
royal permission. He knew that the white man was not asking this favor
for fun, and it came to him that we ought to be made to pay for it.

"Nkoos, you have come far to ask this permission," he said. "You have
trekked through the rain and sun and it has cost you time and money to
get here. You would not have done this if the queen's permission was
not of great value to you, would you?"

I had to admit that I was not there entirely for my health, but
minimized the importance of the pictures to myself personally.

"These pictures will show the glory of Swaziland to the whole world,"
I protested. "I shall carry them over the great waters to all the
countries and there show the people what a wonderful land this is. I
will show the English, the Boers, and all others that Sebuza is a real
king. I will show the entire world that the son of Buno and the
grandson of Queen Labotsibeni rules one of the greatest nations in the
whole of Africa!"

This oration flattered the vanity of the old queen and practically
settled the question. Even the primitive Swazi values publicity.
Labotsibeni agreed that we should have the royal permit to take the
coronation pictures, and the next question was what I would pay. This
was debated for some time. I tried to make Lomwazi set a price for the
permission, while he, cunning beggar, tried to get me to make an offer.

Now the Swazi has only a few standards of value. He recognizes the
fact that women, gold, gin, and cattle have values that are stable
everywhere. These values are about as follows:

One gold pound buys one cow;

Five cows buy one woman;

One quart of gin buys whatever it will, according to the degree with
which it is desired by a Swazi.

Five cows, however, are not a standard price for all women. Only the
women of the plain people are valued at so low a figure. If the women
to be bought are of good family, that is, if they are the daughters of
indunas, they are worth more than five cows. I have known princesses
to be bought for as much as fifty cows. These were the exception,
however, since these girls were the daughters of a high chief.

I was prepared to offer cattle, gin, and money, and had brought along
a certain amount of the latter. Lomwazi, however, started the deal
with women as his counters.

"How many young women, all maidens, are you prepared to give?" he asked.

"It would take too long a time to get the women," I objected, "and I
don't wish to trade women for the permission. I am ready to pay a
small amount of gin and money, and perhaps some cows, but I cannot get
women now."

"Can't you get ten or fifteen women, Nkoos?" Labotsibeni asked in her
husky voice. "My son, Lomwazi, has but few wives and I have so few
maids. It would be very agreeable if you could get a small number of
women."

Lomwazi agreed with her in this, and I had to argue for some time to
get out of the woman phase of the bargaining. Oom Tuys, although he
knew it was against the law for white men to buy and sell women,
pooh-poohed my scruples and told me to turn him loose and he would get
me all the women I wanted. However, I remained firm in my refusal and
the dickering took another tack.

"Well then, we'll buy the women we need," Lomwazi said. "Mzaan Bakoor,
you will have to give much gin and money, and also cows. The queen has
decided that one thousand pounds, one thousand quarts of gin, and one
thousand cows shall be the price."

The old queen nodded her approval. I had not seen her confer with her
vizier and realized that he was acting on his own authority. This
showed me his power and how much the old lady trusted him. I then set
out to get the price down to where we could really talk business. I
had an idea that Lomwazi did not know how many there were in a
thousand, but had used that figure as a basis for the deal.

When I suggested that the thousand figure was preposterous, he
reminded me that it was only as many as there were men in the royal
impi, thus proving that he actually knew what "one thousand" meant.

We talked back and forth, Labotsibeni every now and then putting in a
word. The upshot of it all was that I agreed to pay five hundred
gallons of gin, five hundred gold pounds or sovereigns, and five
hundred cows for the right to take the pictures.

Oom Tuys thought I was a fool to give them so much.

"That is a tremendous price to pay for a few reels of these savages,"
he said; "particularly, when there is a good chance that you will not
be ready to take the pictures before the coronation takes place. To
protect you, I shall make them promise to keep you informed as to when
the show will take place, so that you can get on the job."

He then pinned down the old queen, Lomwazi, and Debeseembie to a
solemn promise that they would send me word as soon as preparations
were under way to make Sebuza king. It is a point of honor among the
royalty and high chiefs of the Swazis that their word is good, and
this promise assured me that I would not lose my opportunity.

Next came the problem of paying for the rights to take the pictures.
Money I had with me, and I was soon able to buy enough cows to make up
the required number. The gin, however, was not so easy. It is against
the law to bring gin into Swaziland, although the authorities did not
object to a few bottles being brought to the old queen. On Tuys's
advice, I arranged that the five hundred gallons be brought in through
Komatipoort, from Portuguese territory. This confession, I suppose,
will make me liable to arrest when I return to the Transvaal. To avoid
detection, the gallon jugs were each packed in bags of straw
surrounded by chaff, being carried over the border by native women.
They looked as though they were carrying corn, and the government
officials let them pass without suspicion.

After making the payment we set out for Ermelo. We had been about a
fortnight on our trip, and both Snyman and Biddy were anxious to get
back. We took the short-cut by way of Mbabane and made good time, the
roads being fairly hard.

We had one shock, however. When we reached the Masuto River we found
that the "flu" had visited there during our absence. First the Scotch
engineer had died and been buried by the Boer farmer who had given us
food; then the farmer had died and been put away by the young
storekeeper with the hunted eyes; and finally he had died and been
hidden in a shallow grave near his store by some passing strangers.
All three were gone, and this cast a gloom over our party, so that we
were glad to leave the spot.

The river had gone down and we were able to ford it without much
trouble, although Snyman had hard luck and fell out of the wagonette
into the only deep spot.

I remembered that there were several women at the house of the dead
farmer, so we went there to pay our respects and offer them any
assistance we could. The house was closed and they were all gone,
evidently to some of their relatives near Ermelo. We were about to
return to the wagonette when I thought I saw something stirring near
an orange-tree back of the house.

It was a "blaau app," or blue monkey, which was tied to the tree. The
farmer's women had forgotten the poor beast when they went away and it
was pathetically glad to see me. It must have been very hungry, for it
had been eating oranges, as the skins strewn on the ground showed. It
was the first time I had ever heard of a monkey eating such food. When
I cut it loose, the poor thing jumped into my arms and I took it back
to the wagonette, where we fed it. Biddy and Snyman soon started an
argument as to what its name should be. The first wanted to call it
"Labotsibeni," but the other thought "Victoria," in memory of a
late-lamented Queen of England, would be a nice name. So, since it was
my monkey, I called her "Jennie," whereat the others upbraided me for
my lack of inspiration. To add to their iniquity, no sooner did we
unpack in Ermelo than they started a preposterous yarn about how I had
stolen "Jennie" from old Queen Labotsibeni. They said that the monkey
was her consolation in old age and that I had decoyed it away, thus
breaking the aged queen's heart.

This was not the last of "Jennie," however. The young doctor who had
taken over my practice was carrying on well, and he adopted the
monkey. She had the run of the place and was quite contented in her
new home until one morning we were awakened by a fearful row. The
peacocks next door were screeching at the top of their lungs and their
owner, a gruff old Englishman, was out on the lawn using very bad
language.

I ran out--and found "Jennie" up a tree with her hands full of the
long tail-feathers from several of the proudest peacocks! It took me
some time to pacify the Englishman, who demanded her life and was
calling for his shotgun. Finally I smoothed the troubled waters, but
"Jennie" was not allowed to run loose after that.

Having obtained the picture rights, I was anxious to have them taken
properly. I scouted about, but could not find the equipment or
camera-men I needed, so I decided to go to New York and get them. Oom
Tuys agreed to watch things in Swaziland and delay the coronation
until I could get back. I felt I could trust him to protect me, so I
started to make arrangements for my overseas trip.

[Illustration: THE STREAM THAT DIVIDES THE ROYAL FROM THE COMMON GROUND

It was on the banks of this stream that we camped awaiting permission
to enter the royal territory. This herd of cattle is being sent to the
royal kraal as payment for two Princesses whom a chief has purchased
as wives]

[Illustration: TYPE OF AFRIKANDER CATTLE

These cattle are the unit of value among the Swazis and enter into
every business transaction]

[Illustration: SWAZI WOMEN AT HOME

Fashion is as inflexible in Swaziland as anywhere, but the styles do
not change]

This was not any too easy, because the war had disarranged sailings
and there were not many ships touching at Cape Town. However, I soon
saw in the paper that there was a freight steamer in port which was to
sail direct to New York. I knew the skipper and telegraphed him that
there was an emergency that required my sailing with him.

"If you care to take a chance," he wired back, "join the ship as soon
as you can."

Just as I was leaving, Tuys reached Ermelo with a message from Lomwazi
that Sebuza would be crowned within the next two months. This made me
all the more anxious to be gone, and I left Tuys with the
understanding that he would do his best to delay the coronation until
I got back from New York.

CHAPTER XIII

I start for New York--The religious atmosphere on shipboard--"Flu"
attacks the Javanese--The missionaries refuse to help--Sharks as
scavengers--The little mother's end--Evils of liquor--Assembling my
party in New York--Passage as freight--St. Lucia and a little
excitement--The thin magistrate--Released on bail.

When I reached the ship I found the reason for the captain's peculiar
telegram. He had more than three thousand Javanese on board whom he
was taking from the East Indies to Paramaribo, Dutch Guiana. From
there he would go on to New York. These people were practically deck
cargo, since there were no accommodations for them inside the ship.

While making arrangements for my cabin, I found that there was a woman
who also had to go to New York. Although my friend, the captain,
objected, I gave up my cabin to her and agreed to share the cabin of
an old Javanese gentleman who was supposed to be in charge of the
others. He was very primitive and ignorant, but spoke Dutch fluently,
and I learned a great deal about Java and the East Indies--that is,
while he lived, which was not long.

The first night out of Cape Town there were twenty-four of us at the
long table in the saloon. All the officers ate with us, and there must
have been sixteen or seventeen passengers all told.

Most important of the passengers were seven American missionaries
returning from their godly work in the waste places of Africa and the
East Indies. They were most conspicuous at all times and did
everything possible to keep table conversation confined to religious
topics. I chummed with a Canadian who represented an American
agricultural firm in South Africa, and we soon became weary of
religion at all meals.

"There's a place for everything in this world," he said one morning
after breakfast, "but I'll be damned if I want to combine kippered
herrings with my soul's salvation!"

It was not long before both of us were in the bad graces of the
missionaries, who did not hesitate to murmur that "it was no wonder
that the savages did not heed the call of Christ when the white men of
their country were so irreligious!"

About the third day both the Canadian and I had had our fill of the
missionaries. We were thinking of asking the captain to allow us to
eat at another hour when something happened that changed the whole
aspect of the ship. I had gone to my cabin to get some "smokes" when
the little old Javanese crept in. He answered my cheerful greeting
very quietly and then shut the door. I could see that something had
hit him and that he wanted to talk. So I sat down on my bunk,
wondering what the trouble was.

"Doctor, there is great trouble among my people," he said in a low
voice. "Last night eleven of them died, and now they are dying all the
time. Some terrible plague is among them and they die, they die!"

This startled me. I had not noticed that there was anything amiss
forward, but then I remembered I had spent practically all my time
aft. Instantly there came to me the recollection of the sudden deaths
of my friends at the ford of the Masuto River. I asked him what form
the disease seemed to take and he gave me a lot of rambling details,
none of which made much sense. He was plainly in a blue funk. I told
him to stay where he was and then went to the captain's cabin.

"I was just about to send for you, Doctor O'Neil," he said in
greeting. "Something has broken loose among those Java coolies and
they are dying like flies. As you know, we have no doctor on board.
Will you go and see what's the matter?"

Then he told me that the first officer had buried more than a dozen
the first thing that morning and that he would have to throw another
lot overboard by noon.

"Why, they're dying like flies," he continued, "and we've got to do
something to stop it. I shipped a full three thousand of them, but at
the rate they're going I won't have a thousand left when I reach
Paramaribo!"

So the captain and I went into the forecastle, taking with us the
little Javanese head man. It took me about five minutes to find out
what was the trouble.

"They've got the 'flu' and got it bad," I told the skipper. "It looks
as though we are in for a bad time."

I was right. Here we were in the midst of nearly three thousand
ignorant people who had no idea of what was the matter. All they knew
was that the man who was sick now would be dead in a short time. They
sat about, perfectly quiet, waiting for death. I have never seen such
resignation. In the scuppers there were six or seven bodies waiting
for the first officer and his burial crew. No one paid any attention
to the dead; they just sat about as though stupefied by what was
happening.

"There's just one thing to do," I told the captain when we got back to
his cabin, "and that's to organize a life-saving corps and get to
work. Let's get all the medicine you have and as much brandy as there
is on board and make a fight."

He agreed with me, and we overhauled the medical stores, finding
little of any use in the present crisis. I have forgotten now what
there was, but I remember thinking that we would have to put our trust
in God and alcohol. I told the captain how inadequate his medicines
were and he threw up his hands.

"Who'd ever expect to get the 'flu' on board, anyway," he asked, as
though it were my fault. "I've got all the medicines I need for the
usual ailments and brandy will cure most of the sicknesses that occur
on this ship. I'll give you all the brandy, rum, and gin there is, and
then you go to it!"

He was panic-stricken and practically told me I was to take command of
his ship, except that he would take care of the navigation and
discipline. I told him the first thing I wanted was assistants, and
asked him to summon all the passengers to the saloon. When they were
assembled, I got up and told them what it was all about.

"These poor devils of Javanese are dying like rats in a hole," I said,
"and I want volunteers to help me save them. There isn't much we can
do, and every time you go among them you stand a chance of catching
the 'flu.' They may not be good Christians, but they are certainly our
fellow men and it is our duty to help them! I want volunteers and want
them now. Who will join my life-saving crew?"

Instantly the lady to whom I had given my cabin and my Canadian friend
volunteered. The others followed one by one, with the prominent
exception of the missionaries. I was astounded that they were not
among the first, and turned to them.

"What's the matter?" I asked, by that time annoyed at their holding
back. "Don't you want to practice a little practical Christianity? Are
none of you going to give us a hand in this fight?"

They did not deign to answer. Instead, they looked at their leader, a
tall gentleman with lean jowls, and he calmly turned and left the
saloon. They trooped after him, and then our captain exploded.

"Of all the yellow dogs!" he exclaimed. "So that's the sort of people
they send out as missionaries! I'd like to throw them all overboard!
Why, they'll hoodoo my ship! I was brought up to believe a parson put
a curse on a ship, and now I know it's so!"

Well, we pitched in and laid out our fight. It was a seemingly
hopeless job. These Javanese did not appear to want to help
themselves. Their only idea was to die, if they were called, and there
was never a peep out of any of them.

Men died and were sent to the sharks, leaving their women mute in
their agony; wives and mothers died, and their men never turned a
hair; children died in their mother's arms and were cast into the sea
without the least outward sign.

I mention the sharks, but even now I hate to think of them. They
loafed along beside the ship, their great bodies slipping easily
through the water, with now and then the flash of a white belly as
they turned to meet the falling body. The Javanese were dying at a
rate of between fifteen and twenty a day, and we soon ran out of
weights for their bodies. The sharks increased in number until it
seemed as though word had been sent out that there was a "death ship"
on the sea. Before long they were fighting for the bodies. I watched
one such conflict, but one was quite enough.

My volunteers and I worked day and night to stem the tide of the
"flu," and through it all the ship plugged along across a sea that was
more like beaten brass than copper. It was hot, very hot, and at night
the decks seemed to steam. Always the impi of sharks kept pace with
us, their bodies throwing up streaks of phosphorescence as they lunged
for their food. The whole thing was like a living nightmare and it
seemed as though it would never end.

Out of the haze of those ghastly days there comes to me one vivid
incident. One of the Javanese women, a mother of seventeen or
thereabouts, had a child of less than a year in her arms. I first
noticed her when she held up her baby to me as I was going among the
sufferers. The look in her eyes was so pleading, so trusting, that I
took the little boy from her and examined him. The baby was as good as
dead already. I gave it a sip of the stuff I was carrying, and the
poor little thing opened its eyes and looked at me. I knew it could
not live, but smiled encouragement as I gave it back to the
outstretched arms.

It was about sunset that night when the little mother realized that
her son, her first-born, had gone. I was standing on the companionway,
looking down on the fore-deck and wondering how long the plague would
last, when some of the crew began picking bodies out of the scuppers
and throwing them overboard. The glory of the sunset seemed a mockery
and the thought came to me that I would be fortunate if I saw many
more such sights. Slowly the young Javanese mother got to her feet and
stood swaying as she wrapped her baby in a gay shawl. This done, she
pressed it to her breast and began to walk to the rail.

"She is going to bury her son herself," I thought, and I was partly
right.

She stood at the rail for a moment and then, the dying sun bright on
her wistful face, turned and smiled at me. I smiled back, but the
smile died aborning, for with one motion she rolled over the rail and
was gone!

I rushed to the place and looked over. The shadow of the ship was
broken by some swirling streaks of phosphorescence, and that was all.
There was no sign of the little Java wife who could not live without
her baby.

That night I asked the old Javanese chief about her. In his clear
Dutch he told me that she was the wife of a Javanese who had gone to
Guiana some months before. She was to join him and bring his son, of
whom he was very proud, when he had established their home in the new
land.

"Now, how can I tell him about this?" the old fellow asked. "He will
want his wife and child, and I will only have a sad story for him."

But he was spared this. Early the next morning I noticed that he was
ill, and in spite of all I could do he passed away before noon.
Shortly before he lapsed into unconsciousness he sent for me.

"I must go with those who have already gone," he said. "They need me
and have sent for me. I can only go if I know that you, the great
white doctor, will guard and care for those whom I leave behind. Will
you do this?"

Naturally, I promised, and that was the last I saw of him. He was a
kindly, simple, old soul and the misfortune of his people would have
broken his heart, had he lived.

In a little while the "flu" began to lose its grip. Fewer and fewer
died each day, and I had begun to think that the end was in sight when
the white lady who was going to America came down with it. She had
been tireless in her efforts to help in caring for the Javanese and I
was not surprised when she fell ill. She was the only white person
aboard to catch the "flu." We did everything possible for her, but she
died on the second day.

As her body went overboard the captain read aloud from the Bible,
choosing the passage, "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man
lay down his life for his friends." This struck me as particularly
appropriate, since she had truly given her life for those Javanese.
After her death the "flu" devil seemed satisfied and abandoned us.
Before the end, however, we had lost more than twelve hundred of the
Javanese!

The missionaries kept close to their cabins during the whole "flu"
visitation, only appearing now and then on the afterdeck. They even
gave this up as soon as the captain suggested that the wind might
carry "flu" germs to them. In spite of their protestations, they had
to eat with the rest of us or go hungry. The captain insisted on this
point, since he felt that they deserved no consideration and it was
also highly entertaining to watch their indignation when we all took a
stiff nip of brandy with our meals. They spoke of what a great thing
prohibition was for the United States, and every time they said it
they would look meaningly at the Canadian and me. In fact, after the
"flu" left us the missionaries varied their religious conversations by
giving table-talks on the evils of liquor. I remember how shocked they
professed to be when I told them how much old Labotsibeni liked her
toddy and how we always brought it to her when we visited Swaziland.

When we reached Free Town, in the Barbadoes, an incident happened
which was very amusing, but which these fanatics used to point out the
evils of liquor. I knew some people there, and the Canadian and I went
ashore and called on them. Of course there was "a party," and we
enjoyed ourselves in free and easy fashion.

Now the ship lay about a mile off port, because there was not
sufficient water to allow her to dock. We went ashore in rowboats and
came back in the same way. The deck was reached by a thirty-foot
ladder, which is not the safest sort of footing at best. On our return
from the party my friend missed his step at the top of the ladder and
fell plump into the sea. There were a number of boats about and he was
fished out without difficulty. The captain and I regarded the mishap
as a good joke on the Canadian, but at dinner that night the
missionaries used it as the text for an extended discourse on the
evils of strong drink.

One female missionary told us a story which led to a retort that is
worth repeating.

"Forty-odd years ago three prominent Philadelphia doctors decided that
drink and tobacco were the two great evils of the world," she said,
"so they agreed never to touch either as long as they lived. They
agreed that they would all meet after forty years and see how they
compared with their drinking, smoking, dissipating friends. All lived
up to the agreement faithfully. Then they met in Philadelphia as
before, and were amazed to see how energetic, health-perfect, and
generally superior they were to those who remained of their friends.
They were now between seventy and eighty years old and yet were as
active as men scores of years younger.

"This proves conclusively," she concluded, "that all the ills of old
age are directly due to drink and tobacco."

Naturally, we agreed with her. This, of course, we should not have
done, since the fanatic gets no pleasure unless able to argue for his
creed. My Canadian friend, however, could not contain himself.

"Dr. O'Neil told me a similar case this morning," he said quite
seriously. "It was about his uncle. This uncle is now one hundred and
five years old and is beginning to worry about his health. Not long
ago he was talking about drink and tobacco and told the doctor here
that he had smoked steadily since he was seven years old; also that
since he was fourteen he had drunk like a fish. 'And look at me,' he
concluded; 'look at me! I know this whiskey will get me in the end!'"

There was a roar of laughter about the table, but the seven
missionaries did not join in it. Instead, we went out of their lives
forever, and in the long days that followed, the skipper, the
Canadian, and I spent most of our time together.

The remainder of our voyage was uneventful and we finally reached New
York. Here I found a cable from Oom Tuys saying that the coronation
was to be held soon and advising me to return as quickly possible.

I realized that no time could be lost and rushed about the city
getting my equipment and party together. I engaged Dr. Leonard Sugden,
the arctic explorer, as art and field director, William T. Crespinell
as technical expert, and Earl Rossman as camera-man. Since they were
to do the work, I had them buy the equipment. A feature of this was
the manner in which the reels of film were packed. Knowing the
difficulties of the Transvaal climate, Crespinell had them soldered in
tins which were again placed in other tins. These were also soldered
and the air exhausted between the outer and inner tins, so that the
films practically traveled in a thermos bottle.

After assembling my party and equipment, the next step was to get the
whole outfit to Swaziland. This was a terrific undertaking. The war
had so disarranged the world's shipping that I spent days on the docks
of Staten Island and South Brooklyn trying to find a ship that would
take us to Cape Town. Finally, after almost despairing, I was able to
book passage for Crespinell and Rossman on the steamer "City of Buenos
Aires," which went direct to Cape Town. A day later the captain of a
freighter for the same port was induced to include Dr. Sugden and
myself in his cargo. He did not know when he would start, but assured
me that it would be soon.

This was on a Saturday, and I told Sugden to stand by and wait for
word to go on board. I saw that our equipment was stowed in the
forward hold of the ship, and then went up to Fairfield, Connecticut,
where some friends of my Harvard days were living. They invited me to
stay until I had to sail, and I settled down to have a pleasant visit.
They have a fine farm and a barbecue was arranged in my honor. This
barbecue was held in the woods, and we were in the midst of it when a
servant came from the house with a telegram from the captain of the
ship. He said that he would sail at eleven o'clock the next morning!

At once commenced a mad rush. I got Sugden's hotel on the long
distance telephone, but they only knew that he had gone somewhere in
the country to spend the week-end. I hurried back to New York and
looked up every address where I might get information about him, but
was unable to locate him. I kept trying up to the last moment, but
finally could only leave word at his hotel that I was sailing. I went
aboard very low in mind because his duties with my proposed expedition
were of great importance.

But Sugden is one of those mortals who seldom gets left. As we swung
down the bay past the Statue of Liberty, I spied a tug coming after us
with great speed. In addition, she was whistling and generally acting
as though she was trying to catch our freighter. We were going slowly,
so that in a short time the little craft fussed up alongside--and
there was Sugden waving his hand from her forward deck! A rope-ladder
was lowered, and a moment later I was gleefully shaking hands with him.

Now this was to be one of the most memorable voyages of my life--and I
have traveled a good deal. To begin with, we had the worst
accommodations I have ever endured on any vessel. Our ship was only a
cargo boat and there were no passenger-cabins whatever. We slept in a
sort of steerage in the hold, in company with twelve of the crew. It
was the most filthy hole I was ever in and reeked with vermin,
including rats of the largest and most ferocious kind. The crew were
the usual scum found on such boats and were the dirtiest human beings
I have ever seen. They disapproved of us--and we of them--to such a
degree that I often expected they would try to do us harm. Sugden,
however, took all this as part of the game, and his sporting spirit
made it possible for us to exist. His experiences in the Far North had
made him familiar with all sorts of white men, but I had never seen
such as these. People now and then speak slightingly of the kaffir,
but the Swazi, with his daily ablutions, is a very superior person
when compared with these so-called "white men."

When our ship reached the warmer latitudes our hole became unbearable
and we moved our pallets to the poop-deck, where we managed to get
some sleep in spite of the terrific rainstorms we ran into. We felt
that it was better to be drowned by clean rainwater than to suffocate
and die slowly in our steerage bunks. However, our miserable existence
used to get on our nerves now and then and we would drown our sorrows
with whatever liquor we could obtain.

There was one other passenger on the boat. He was a typical American
of the western type who had lived in South Africa for years. Every
year he made a trip to the United States and brought back blooded
stock of various kinds. He was the slap-dash, breezy kind of
big-hearted soul and soon became chummy with us. Owing to the fact
that he was a regular tripper on this boat, he was able to share
accommodations with one of the officers.

It soon became his custom to visit us. He would sing out, "Look out
below!" and then would creep down the shaky ladder which was the only
means of entry to our place of misery. Always he brought a bottle, and
the excellent "hootch," as he called it, did much to make our lives
bearable. He was a good story-teller and would always introduce a
preposterous yarn with the preface, "Now this _is_ true!" We gave him
quite a run for his money when it came to yarning, as both of us had
been about a bit, Sugden in the north and I in the south of the world.

The first break in the monotony of this dreadful voyage came when we
reached St. Lucia, in the British West Indies. This is a gorgeous bit
of the tropics set in an opal sea, with cloud-covered mountain-tops
that seem to rake the sky.

When the ship tied up in the roadstead, Sugden and I felt that we were
due to go on the loose a bit and went ashore with the express purpose
of forgetting our troubles. We certainly succeeded in doing so, but
ended by jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. Several of the
ship's officers went with us, as they felt there were events at hand
which they must not miss. Our "party" started at the first hotel we
entered. This, it seems, was exclusively for the colored section of
the population, for the place fairly reeked with blacks.

After we had had several drinks, Sugden turned to me and asked:

"Well, what are we here for? What do we want?"

"Excitement!" was my answer, and we proceeded to get it.

There was a billiard-table in the room, and this, with its torn green
baize, suggested a battle-ground. We started a series of fights
between the blacks, with a prize of five shillings to each winner. The
conditions of the battles were that the two blacks should fight on the
billiard-table, the loser being the one knocked off. There were some
gallant battles, and every winner fairly earned his crown.

The noise of the cheering drew a crowd, and soon the large bare
bar-room was jammed with black boys and a sprinkling of whites. We
whetted our interest by betting on the combatants, and I was doing
quite nicely when the police broke in and stopped the fun.

There was a squad of these funny black policemen, led by what I took
to be a sergeant. They carried authority, and the blacks seemed to
regard them with a great deal of respect.

The sergeant wanted to know what I was doing. I told him that I was
conducting a boxing tournament for the benefit of something or other.
He asked if I had "official permission," and I admitted that I had
overlooked this formality.

"Then you are inciting riot and rebellion," he said in his clipped
English. "I arrest you in the name of the King!"

At this, Sugden commenced to laugh. This was a great mistake, since
the black sergeant seemed to think that we were scoffing at the king.
Without more ado, he invited us to accompany him to the court.

"This, my dear sirs," he said severely, "is a very serious matter. It
is not allowed to stir up strife in His Majesty's colonies."

The court was in an old-style Spanish house, and the room was vacant
except for buzzing flies. These zoomed like infant meteors through the
narrow streaks of sunlight from the long windows. The benches were
worn and comfortable, and I remember dropping off to sleep with the
thought that even these flies had more luck than we did, since they
had sunlight and fresh air, while our home was that dreadful steerage
hole.

I was awakened by Sugden's elbow. There on the high bench sat a thin
old gentleman all in white. He had a thin hooked nose much like an
eagle's beak, and his eyes were of the well-known gimlet type. As I
took him in, the sergeant was reciting the charge against us.

"These are desperate men," I heard him say, "from the ship now in the
harbor. They were in the St. Lucia Hotel and were--"

"Yes! Yes!" interrupted the thin magistrate in a voice as sharp as his
nose. "But what is the charge? What have they done? Never mind the
oration; get to the charge!"

By this time I was wide awake. I suddenly came to a full realization
that I was one of those "desperate men" and found myself deeply
interested.

"They were inciting riot and rebellion," the sergeant went on,
undaunted by the magistrate's impatience. "A boy ran to the
police-station and said murders were being done at the hotel. I called
out all the police and went there as fast as we could run. Inside the
billiard-room were hundreds of whites and blacks, all shouting with
their desire for blood. On the billiard-table were two black men
trying to kill one another. As I watched, one struck the other. He
fell from the table and the crowd cheered.

"Then this man," he went on, pointing at me, "hands money to the man
on the table and says, 'You win!' After this he takes money from the
other white man"--pointing at Sugden--"and tells him that he is rotten
at picking fighters."

"What next? What next?" the magistrate snapped.

"Then the first man demands that more men come and fight," continued
the sergeant, "and there was a rush by the blacks to see who could get
on the table. Then I brought my men in and arrested them both.
Entirely unashamed at being arrested, this man"--again indicating
Sugden--"laughs out loud when I say the name of the king!"

It seemed that we were guilty of disturbing the peace and quiet of His
Majesty's island of St. Lucia and were very reprehensible characters.
The lean magistrate regarded us with severe eye, and I am not
surprised that he looked at us with suspicion. The voyage had not
improved our looks much and we had come ashore in much-worn "ducks."
In fact, we must have looked like a couple of beach-combers.

"You have heard the charge?" he snapped at us. "Guilty or not guilty?"

We were as guilty as could be, of course. Therefore we answered in one
voice:

"Not guilty!"

The magistrate raised his eyebrows at our effrontery and then cleared
his throat again.

"Then you'll have to stand trial," he said. "I shall admit you to
bail. Five pounds each!"

We promptly produced the bail, and I think the "thin dash of vinegar,"
as Sugden christened him, was surprised that we had it. Certainly we
did not look as though we had a shilling between us. After our
pedigrees were taken, we were informed that we would be tried at "ten
o'clock next Thursday morning."

Outside the court-room we found one of the ship's officers in a state
of frenzy. It seems that he had been sent to get us, as the ship ought
to have sailed several hours before.

"She's been blowing and blowing and blowing for you!" he informed us
in an aggrieved tone, "The old man is fair beside himself with rage."

"Oh, that's what all the noise is about," Sugden innocently remarked.

Then he suggested that we take our time and stop at several places. He
argued that so long as we kept the officer with us the captain would
not dare to sail. But I vetoed this proposition, feeling that we had
already run afoul of "His Majesty the King" and not caring to take
another chance.

CHAPTER XIV

Obstinate stowaways--Free Town and a fight--Bay rum as a
beverage--Sugden lets off smoke-bombs--Cape Town, a party, and some
Anzacs--Oom Tuys advises haste--Through South Africa--Americans and
Boers in Ermelo--Hurried visit to Swaziland for information--Mystery
over the coronation--Royal gin for Labotsibeni--Debeseembie drinks and
talks.

We were certainly unpopular with the skipper when we got back on
board. The officers who had attended our fistic tournament had
returned slightly the worse for wear, and, of course, their condition
was laid at our door. In fact, we retired to our pallets on the
poop-deck feeling that we had not one friend on the ship, outside of
the gunner, who was heavily subsidized. It was his job to feed us, and
we tipped him liberally to get us the best there was. He earned his
money, however.

At dawn the next morning there was a fine explosion--the captain
fairly blew up. The chief officer had discovered two stowaways, and we
were wakened by his marching them up to the captain's cabin. It seems
it was the duty of the commanding officer of the ship to return these
stowaways to the port where they slipped on board, and the rules made
him responsible for their cost until he did so. This annoyed our
worthy captain exceedingly and his language was more sultry than the
weather, and that is saying a great deal. In his torrent of profanity
the skipper included Dr. Sugden and myself, for it seems that he held
us responsible for the stowaways getting aboard the ship.

While he relieved himself of all that bad language, the two stowaways,
both negroes, stood silent, although there was a baleful gleam in
their eyes. They were finally told off to do some work, but flatly
refused to lift a finger. Then food was denied them until they did
work, and the matter reached a deadlock. The captain finally decided
to put into Free Town, in the Barbadoes, and turn them over to the
authorities there after making arrangements for their return to St.
Lucia.

When the ship reached Free Town the captain gave strict orders that no
one should be allowed ashore, adding, "particularly those two
doctors!" We did not like this, as Free Town is a pleasant place and
we could have found relaxation there that would have broken the tedium
of the voyage. We needed the break, too, for the captain had ordered
that we should not be allowed to buy any more liquor after the events
at St. Lucia.

However, we had commissioned the gunner to see what he could do for us
and he had gone ashore with "the old man." In a little while a busy
motor-launch, with the Union Jack flying free, came chugging alongside
with our worthy captain and six of the Free Town police.

They tumbled on board and announced to the stowaways that they were
under arrest.

"We are, are we?" these worthies asked. "Well then, come and get us!"

They tore off their coats and shirts and waited for the attack. The
police made no move, and I did not blame them. These two outcasts were
the finest specimens of "fighting niggers" I have ever seen. Their
torsos were ribbed with muscle and they looked fit to fight for their
lives. What was more, they seemed anxious to begin!

The police shuffled their feet, and I saw that they were afraid to
tackle them. The stowaways saw it, too, and became cocky. They turned
on the captain and officers of the ship and let loose a flood of
damaging language quite as strong as their splendid bodies.
Expurgated, it ran something like this:

"You white folks think 'cause you've got some gol' braid on yer coats
that yu' kin run over us! Come on an' get us! If yu' wanter arrest us,
come an' do it! Yu' aint got th' nerve! Yu're afraid, that's wot yu'
are! Come on an' fight, white men, come on!"

Not one of the officers or police moved. The stowaways were right;
they were afraid. Then Sugden and I broke the tension by cheering the
stowaways. Like us, they were the under dogs and we were for them. We
cheered and applauded their defiance, and this proved too much for the
forces of law and order.

There was a wild rush, and after a few sturdy blows the stowaways were
overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers. When the flailing arms stopped,
they were flat on the deck with about six men sitting on each. The
irons were brought and clapped on them, and the last we saw of them
was when they were hustled on board the launch.

While this party was going on the gunner had been busy on our behalf.
He had been unable to sneak away from the captain's gig when ashore,
but made up for it by doing business with the bumboat men who came
alongside. From one of these he bought two cases of bay rum, paying
twenty cents a quart for it. This he smuggled down into our steerage
and told us about it as soon as the smoke of battle had cleared away.

Now this bay rum is not meant for drinking, although the blacks of
that part of the world consume great quantities of it. I have heard
that it makes them wild, and I am not surprised. It did worse than
that to Sugden and me.

We started drinking it as soon as we could, and before long we reached
the semi-conscious state that made life bearable. From this we went
into the second stage--that of hallucinations. We went practically
crazy. Sugden insisted that he was a red squirrel and I believed that
I was a wild cat. We became violent and were locked in the steerage.
However, they did not take our bay rum away.

Now the captain never visited our quarters, so he did not know of our
plight until the end of the second day. Then he ordered that we be
released. No sooner was the hatch taken off than Sugden tore up the
ladder, crying out that "the wild cat" was after him. I was! Believing
his assertion that he was a red squirrel, I chased him all over the
boat, intent on killing him.

We dashed through the officers' quarters, the captain's cabin, across
the decks, up on the bridge and down again, and even got into the
engine-room in our mad chase. Every one on the ship followed us,
roaring with laughter. It was the funniest thing they had ever seen.
Finally they captured us and brought us back to earth with buckets of
sea-water.

The captain was so amused that he forgave our previous sins and became
our friend. He confiscated the balance of the bay rum and put us on an
allowance of one stiff drink of whiskey each evening. This helped, but
it was not very much under the circumstances.

The next afternoon Sugden made a hit with the captain. The World War
was not long over and the ship had a number of smoke-bombs which were
supposed to be used in foiling U-boats. The gunner was in charge of
them. Since they were no longer needed, the captain gave orders that
they be thrown overboard.

The gunner, however, proved inexpert. He lighted several, and then
dropped them over the stern so quickly that the fuse was extinguished
without the bomb exploding. Sugden watched these manoeuvers with
extreme disgust. At each failure his remarks became more insulting.
Finally he could stand it no longer--he had not yet fully recovered
from the bay rum--and staggered up to the gunner.

"You're a fine gunner," he snorted. "Who ever heard of a gunner who
couldn't make a smoke! Stand back and let an expert let 'em off!"

I was deathly afraid that he might have an accident, that one of the
bombs would explode and kill him. The gunner had the same idea and
hurriedly withdrew. The captain called to Sugden, but he paid no
attention. He lighted the first bomb, held it for an interminable
time, and dropped it over. It "boomed" as it struck the water and
threw out the smoke-screen in most approved navy fashion. We all
cheered, partly from relief that there had been no accident. Then
Sugden let off all the rest of the bombs without a failure.

"Well, you're a little bit of all right, after all," the captain said.
"Come down to my cabin and I'll give you a real drink!"

From then on we had a pleasant trip. Our captain let bygones be
bygones and we enjoyed the few remaining days enough to partly make up
for the misery that had preceded them.

Crespinell and Rossman had arrived in Cape Town when we reached there,
and came out in a motor-boat to meet us. We introduced them to our new
friend, the captain, and he gave them a brief résumé of our activities
during the thirty-odd days of the voyage. He gave us credit for being
two of the "rarest specimens" he had ever encountered.

"The next time I ship two such wild men as these," he said, "I'll move
into the forecastle and give 'em my cabin! What's more, from now on
I'm going to limit myself to one doctor a trip, and he won't be a
Boer, either. These two devils did everything from start a menagerie
on one case of bay rum to instigate a mutiny when we had some fighting
stowaways on board."

Then he gave a romantic and none too flattering account of how we had
been arrested in St. Lucia, and ended by informing my men that we were
"fugitives from justice." This had not occurred to me; perhaps it is
so and I shall find the funny black policeman waiting for me the next
time I visit the island.

We were glad to get ashore. It is one thing to race across the
Atlantic in five days on a floating palace and quite another and
none-too-pleasant experience to spend more than a month on a freighter
in the warmer latitudes. The solid earth welcomed our feet and we
found Cape Town very gay.

After getting settled at the hotel, we started out to enjoy ourselves.
Of course we chartered a motor, and our trail could easily be followed
by the familiar fumes of gasoline and alcohol. The town was full of
"Anzacs," Australian and New Zealand soldiers, returning from the war.
They were great big reckless devils, glad to be going home and
glorying in the fact that they had won the war. This led to an
argument and to my taking a short and sad cruise in the "Mayflower,"
this being the highflown name of a typical Cape Town hack.

In one of the many places we visited during the course of our rambles,
we ran into a number of "Aussies" celebrating the downfall of the
Boche. They immediately noted Dr. Sugden's sombrero and greeted him as
a "Yank." This was all right, but soon they added a familiar remark,
"The Yanks won the war; oh yes, they did!" and Sugden became
indignant. The usual argument ensued. Words ceased when Sugden slammed
his hat on the ground and offered to lick them all. A second later we
were in the center of a fine mêlée, which was ended by the military
police breaking in.

Sugden was badly used up and some of the rest of us were severely
bruised. The nearest vehicle was the "Mayflower," so we piled the
"fighting Yank" into it and took him back to the hotel. He had been
badly damaged, so that it was a week before we were able to travel.

In the meantime Oom Tuys had sent me several telegrams in which he
urged me to hurry. In one there was the phrase, "Tzaneen making
trouble; maybe war," and this sounded as if we were in for an
interesting time when we reached Swaziland. I did not understand how
she could do anything unless she tried to take the throne for Sebuza
by force, but the situation looked as though there was some excitement
ahead.

Sugden was still recuperating from his battle with the Australians and
expected to remain in bed for a few days more when this wire reached
me. I showed it to him and he immediately became excited.

"Come on, let's go" he said, getting out of bed. "We're wasting time
here. Let's get into Swaziland and see what's doing."

We left next day for the Transvaal. It is a long journey, but to one
who has not made it before there is much of interest.

After leaving the coast there come the beautiful mountain passes of
the Cape Colony. Then the train drops to the Karoo Desert, with its
endless brown stretches broken only by dry rivers, near which can be
seen great herds of sheep. Kimberley, with its barrenness and huge
dumps of dark, diamond-washed soil comes next, and finally the Great
Fish River is crossed to the grassy plains of the Orange Free State.
Across these plains the train runs for hundreds of miles, and then
comes the Vaal River, after which the veldt of the Transvaal is
reached. After a while the huge smoke-stacks and great white ore-dumps
of Johannesburg loom, and the journey is practically ended.

My companions were keen to hear all about this country, so new to
them, and I was kept busy running from side to side of the car
supplying their thirst for information. Dr. Sugden, I found, was well
up on the history of the country and would often supply a missing date
when I related the romantic story of the Boer and British conquest of
South Africa.

We spent several days in Johannesburg, and my companions were
delighted with it. They frequently commented on its being like an
up-to-date American city, as they found practically everything there
that they would expect in the United States. In fact, Sugden was loud
in his praises of the telephone service, which he insisted was "almost
as good as that at home." The city has developed extensively during
the last twenty years and now has buildings, hotels, and streets of
the most modern type. The great contrast lies in the character of the
street traffic. There are hundreds of motors of all kinds, but there
are also innumerable rickshaws drawn by Zulus, thousands of kaffirs,
and not a few horse-cabs.

Then, of course, the huge mine-dumps right in the heart of the city
struck my companions as extraordinary, but it must be remembered that
the city grew up after the mines were sunk. There are miles and miles
of smoke-stacks, and the crushing of the ore mills can always be
heard. My party was much impressed by Parktown, the millionaires'
suburb to the north of the city. Here there are libraries, a
zoological garden, and all things essential to a thoroughly equipped
and prosperous city. I have many friends in Johannesburg and my
companions had a pleasant time visiting them with me.

They had their first view of a real Boer village when we landed in
Ermelo a few days later. The morning we reached there we saw several
score of Cape carts loaded with farmers and their wives coming to town
to shop. Then there were several of those great canvas-topped freight
wagons, drawn by seven or eight span of wide-horned oxen and driven by
a number of kaffir boys. These walk alongside with their long goads,
and the entire progress of the caravan is one long shout. With the
yelling of the kaffirs, the creaking of the great wagon, and the
frequent lowing of the oxen, the noise of such an outfit is as
striking as is its picturesque appearance.

Sugden was intensely interested in these great freight trains, and
reminded me of their similarity to those which made the overland trail
in the States during the days of the forty-niners. The heavy-set men
riding beside the wagons particularly impressed him.

"Why, they are the same men that settled the West of my country," he
exclaimed. "Their steady eyes and great beards remind me of the days
of Crockett and Boone. Their rifles, ready for instant use, carry out
the picture. Fred Remington would have been crazy over these ox-teams!"

I noted that the interest was not all on our side; these farmer Boers
were quite as curious about us as we were about them. They called each
other's attention to our strange clothes, and not a few looked with
envy at Dr. Sugden's sombrero. He was right about these men. They are
the true pioneer breed, the men who found and make empires!

Oom Tuys was not in Ermelo. One of his boys was waiting for me,
however, with a message that preparations were being made for the
coronation at Lebombo, but that Labotsibeni had made no sign as yet.
He assured me that I need not worry and that he would join me at
Ermelo in a day or two.

I commenced assembling our expedition, and while I was so occupied my
companions visited about and made many friends among the Boers. None
of them had ever seen any Americans, although they had heard much of
the United States, and they were greatly interested in everything the
latter said and did. In fact, word reached the outlying districts that
some Americans were in Ermelo and several hundred Boers trekked in to
see them. Of course my companions could not talk Dutch and it was
seldom that an interpreter could be found. It was no unusual thing for
several great, bearded Boers to shake hands with them and say, "Hello,
America!" this being the extent of their English. Sometimes
conversations would take place in very broken English, the Boers
always wishing to get news from the outer world.

I remember one such talk. The Boer was a sort of preacher and was
fairly well read. He spoke English of a kind--that is, it was
understandable. He caught Sugden and me when we were returning from
looking over some oxen and asked us a question that had been
perplexing him. I translate his words into ordinary language, as
otherwise they would be difficult to understand.

"The war is over, yes?" he asked. "And America sent more than two
million men and spent hundreds of millions of pounds. England, France,
and the others will take much from Germany and Austria, but America
says she will take nothing. Is this so?"

"Yes, that's right," Sugden answered.

"Why is America so foolish?" he asked in a puzzled way. "She loses
thousands of men and millions of money, and yet wants nothing from
Germany! Why did she go into the war?"

This question was not asked so often in those days, and I was curious
to hear Sugden's reply.

"America went into the war to save herself," the doctor answered
positively. "If Germany had won, she would have had to fight her
alone, so she went in to avoid such a war."

This satisfied the greybeard, but he went off muttering, "America
wants nothing! America wants nothing! Such a foolishness!"

Naturally, he could not understand this. Every time the Boers made war
they gained territory, as did the British, and he judged from his own
experience. I was glad that Sugden had stated the facts, instead of
the old cant about America fighting to "save civilization." I know the
old Boer would not have understood that and would have regarded it as
what Sugden called "bunk."

I had about finished assembling our outfit when Tuys came. He brought
word that the coronation was indefinitely postponed, so we settled
down to wait a bit before starting for the wilds of Swaziland. As
usual, the unexpected happened. One of Tuys's men came to Ermelo in
hot haste, bearing word that the coronation was to take place as soon
as possible.

This was disconcerting information, and Tuys and I held a council of
war.

"I don't believe that they intend having the coronation right away,"
he said. "I don't think that Sebuza has been properly consecrated yet."

"Well, you know what we've just heard," I said. "I wish we could get
some first-hand information about it. I'd hate to lose out after all
the trouble I've taken."

"Owen, lad, there's just one thing to do--let us make a quick trip to
Zombode and find out about it," my uncle advised.

We talked the matter over for some time, and that seemed to be the
only solution. There were still a few details of our expedition to be
attended to, but I turned these over to Sugden and made up my mind to
leave next morning.

Dawn saw Oom Tuys and me on the trail. We rode fast ponies and went
unattended. What food we needed we carried in saddle-bags, and the
most weighty part of our load consisted of several bottles of gin.
These, of course, were a necessity.

The trip proved uneventful. The weather was good and we were able to
sleep out comfortably. We skirted around Mbabane, since it would not
do for Mr. Commissioner Dickson to know that Tuys was going into
Swaziland.

When we reached Zombode we found Lomwazi on guard at the royal kraal.
He came out to meet us and received our gift of gin with rather poor
grace. He seemed uneasy and not at all glad to see us. We asked to see
Queen Labotsibeni.

"Nkoos, the queen is not well and cannot see you," he answered, lying
badly.

"But she sent for me," Tuys said, catching his eye and meeting lie
with lie. With the assured air of the white man, he was able to tell
his lie convincingly.

We knew that we would be caught if we allowed Lomwazi to return to the
old queen alone, so we dogged his footsteps and arrived at her hut
with him. Tuys fairly pushed in ahead of Lomwazi, and a moment later
was talking to Labotsibeni.

"Nkosikaas, mother of Buno the Great," he said, "I, the White King of
Swaziland, am here to do your bidding. Your son, Lomwazi, told me that
you are not well and I have brought Mzaan Bakoor, the great doctor, to
cure you."

I could see the old woman seemed very feeble. She nodded approval as
Tuys finished and answered by asking for gin. Lomwazi pulled out the
glass stopper and a moment later held the earthenware cup to his
mother's lips. She gulped and choked, then repeated her action, and
finally finished the drink, gasping for breath.

We sat and watched and saw a transformation. As the alcohol went down
we saw her strength return. In a few minutes she was the same old
queen I had known before. Lomwazi squatted behind her with sullen
look. When he glanced our way there was murder in his eyes, and I did
not like it. Tuys, always reckless and utterly fearless, gave him
glance for glance, and the black man's eyes always fell.

"I am cured, Nkoos," Labotsibeni began in quite a strong voice. "I am
well. The 'muti' of the white man cures all ills of the body, even
when it numbers the years as the leaves of the trees. Why have you
come to see me?"

"I wish to know when you plan to make your grandson, Sebuza, the son
of Buno, king of Swaziland," Tuys answered without fencing. He thought
that a direct answer might get the truth.

"When all is ready Sebuza will be made king," she answered without
hesitation, and it seemed to me there was the ghost of a smile on her
lips.

Tuys then asked her how soon that would be, but she said she did not
know. This time I was sure she smiled. I had a feeling that we would
get no information out of her and that Zombode was not any too anxious
for the coronation.

Tuys then asked for Sebuza and wanted to know where he was. The blind
old queen let Lomwazi answer us, and the wily vizier said he did not
know, but that he thought the crown prince was in the mountains being
consecrated.

According to the ancient customs, before the new king takes office he
must go through a lengthy ceremonial in the mountains. This usually
lasts for two months, or "two moons," and the priests, or
witch-doctors, are in charge of the rites. In the case of Sebuza the
sanctification was also the celebration of his attaining manhood.

After Lomwazi's evasive reply--for I felt that he was
lying--Labotsibeni began to ask questions. I knew that we must answer
them in detail if we wished to get any further information, so we did
so. She became quite peevish when the effect of the gin wore off and
was nothing but a querulous old woman. But she asked the most
extraordinary questions! I realized more than ever that she had
brains, for she went from one end of the world to the other. Of course
she had no education as we know it, but she asked about the Boers and
British and how they were getting along together, "lying in the same
bed," as she put it.

She had heard that all the white men were at war with one another, and
she asked question after question about the world conflict. It seems
that aëroplanes had flown over parts of Swaziland during the war, and
she was curious about these. They had been described to her as great
birds carrying men and guns, and she wanted to know how it was done.

Tuys and I kept our patience and answered everything we could, always
trying to get a stray bit of information concerning Sebuza's
coronation. She had several drinks of gin during the talk, which ended
after about three hours with our being no wiser than when we came.
Once or twice we thought the news was coming, but each time the
watchful Lomwazi stepped into the breach and turned the subject. We
were completely baffled.

Finally we gave it up. As we made our farewell speech, in which we
wished the old queen "long life and good health," I offered her the
"going-away present." Then ensued an incident that showed how keen she
was in spite of her great age and lack of sight.

The gin bottle was an unusual shape; that is, it was long and tall,
instead of being squat and square. When I handed it to her she passed
her hands over it with rapidity and then asked what it was, for she
had never had a bottle like it before.

"It is royal gin," I assured her. "It is gin that is made only for
kings and queens. It is the gin that the queen of the English drinks.
It is the only gin worthy of you, Nkosikaas!"

This satisfied her and she accepted our farewell, so we went back to
our horses. Tuys was amused at the old queen's keenness and told me I
had committed treason by making the Queen of England drink gin to
placate a Swazi potentate. Lomwazi came with us to do the honors,
though really he wanted to make sure we did not talk to any one and
get information. He was still sullen and suspicious, and we pointedly
did not present him with the gin he hoped for, although he saw that we
had several bottles left.

"It's no use, Owen," Tuys said, as we rode down the trail to the
Valley of Heaven. "They are planning something, and I fear it means
trouble for that cub, Sebuza. I have a feeling that we ought to get
our outfit here and sit tight and watch events. Something is going to
happen. It may be a new king or a dead crown prince. I can't tell
which."

That night we camped near a kraal of one of the minor indunas and
noted that there was less cordiality than usual. Tuys strolled over to
the great fire and talked for some time with the warriors. In a little
while he came back quite excited.

"Debeseembie, Lomwazi's brother, is over there," he said. "He is
inside the kraal, but some of his men let out the fact that he was
there. I wonder what he is doing? Suppose we try and find out."

This seemed a good idea, and Tuys went about it in his own cunning
way. He strolled over to the fire and told one of the warriors that he
had a bottle of gin for Debeseembie, but that he would only deliver it
to him personally. Then he came back to where I was stretched on my
blankets.

Now a Swazi, like all other kaffirs, will do anything for alcohol,
even to the sacrifice of his royal dignity. Debeseembie was the son of
a queen and the brother of the late King Buno; nevertheless, he was
standing respectfully nearby within a few minutes.

"Nkoos, you have a present for me?" he asked, and I could see his eyes
flash in anticipation.

"Yes, if you will sit and talk a while," I told him, and then produced
a bottle. Tuys poured out a generous drink and gave it to him.
Debeseembie choked it down, just as the kaffirs always do, and then
gasped for breath for a moment.

Then Tuys began talking about many things, none of them with much
bearing on the information we wanted. In a little while Debeseembie
had another drink. He is the most sincere of all the royal family and
I have always found him to be very trustworthy. He is not a good liar
and seems to know it.

Gradually we led the conversation to the coming coronation and finally
asked him the leading question: How soon will it be? He was not
angered and gave us the first direct intimation of the trouble we had
suspected.

"My brother, Lomwazi, doesn't want it to take place," he said; "and he
has great power over our mother. He frightens her by telling her that
she will have to die when Sebuza is crowned. All the people of
Swaziland want to have a king and are tired of Labotsibeni and
Lomwazi, and Tzaneen is working for her son's coronation. No one can
tell when Sebuza will be made king. It may be never!"

That was what we wanted to know. Debeseembie, always at the old
queen's elbow, ought to know what he was talking about and we felt
that he had told the truth. A few moments later I gave him our last
bottle of gin and he stumbled back to his kraal.

Next morning we were up at dawn, striking back to Ermelo as fast as we
could go. Again we skirted Mbabane, but nevertheless made good time.
Tuys was very thoughtful during most of the trip, and I cannot
remember that he had anything to say until we came in sight of Ermelo.

"Well, it looks as if our friends in Swaziland need some one to make
up their minds for them," he said in a musing way. "However, I don't
want to have to do it!"

I glanced at the cunning old man, but he was looking into the dust
ahead and did not amplify his remark. It was an interesting thought,
however, and it did offer one way out of our difficulties.

CHAPTER XV

Outfitting for Swaziland--Our cook becomes "Gunga Din"--Lomwazi's
messenger--Off for Zombode--Rossman goes hunting--Too much rain--The
oxen die and are replaced by donkeys--Sneaking liquor through
Mbabane--Ezulweni mosquitoes rival New Jersey's--We are very unpopular
in Zombode--Manaan's damage suit and settlement.

Dr. Sugden and the others were waiting for me at the house. They were
all ready to start and impatient to be off. The novelty of Boer life
in Ermelo had worn away and they now were keen to be out among the
Swazis.

"Let's go!" was Sugden's chant. "Come on, let's start! All the things
are packed, the wagon's set, and the oxen are eating their heads off.
Come on, let's go!"

I assured him that we would be off as soon as possible, and added that
he would find plenty of hard walking to use up his surplus energy once
we started trekking. Tuys and I, as the old-timers of the party, made
a thorough inspection of the wagon and outfit. We had trekked
practically all over the Transvaal and Orange Free State at various
times and our equipment was all that could be needed for the job in
hand.

The wagon was one of the great freight-carriers used so extensively in
South Africa. It was along the lines of the old American "prairie
schooner," except that it was much bigger and heavier in every way. It
was about eighteen feet long by ten wide and could safely be loaded up
to three or three and a half tons. Its wheels were squat and heavy,
with broad tires built to prevent their cutting into soft roadways and
to roll over the dust of dry weather without sinking into it. The rear
half of the wagon was covered with a top, or tent, under which a
permanent bed was built. This bed was of the primitive plain-board
kind, but saved us from having to sleep on the wet earth on many
occasions. When we started out the wagon was drawn by eleven span, or
twenty-two oxen. Three Swazi boys were in charge of it and were
responsible for its animals.

Then, chiefly for our personal convenience, I had pressed the
wagonette into service, and this was drawn by six mules. Sibijaan and
Tuis were in charge of this part of the outfit.

I must not forget our cook. He was a most important member of the
expedition and came through it in a most remarkable manner--always on
the job and always ready to work a little harder. He was an Indian,
that is, a native of India who had come to the Transvaal as servant to
a British officer during the World War. His right name became lost
early in our association. It was a long, three-barreled sort of name,
quite melodious, but not handy for trek use. When I was inspecting our
equipment I asked him his name again, and he calmly answered, "Gunga
Din, Sahib."

"Since when? When did you change your name?" I asked, surprised that
he had relinquished his proud paternal patronymic.

"Yesterday, Sahib. The sahib with the large hat says that he can't
remember my name and tells me that from now on I shall be known as
'Gunga Din.'"

Investigation showed that Sugden became fed up on the long, beautiful
name of our cook and had firmly given him one that was easy to remember.

"Gunga Din's easy to remember," he explained. "Gunga Din and Rudyard
Kipling go together, and you surely can't forget them both. G. Din
made R. K. famous, and it's a cinch to remember the cook's name that
way. Anyhow, we'll be calling him 'Din' as soon as we get going!"

And he was right. The chef with a name like a great poet became "Din"
and remained "Din" until we returned from Swaziland.

The great wagon was heavily loaded with all the dunnage and
impedimenta needed for our expedition, among which were gin and a
number of mysterious cases I had personally seen packed in New York.
My companions did not know what was in them until late in our
expedition, but when they found that I had nearly one hundred pounds
of glorious five-and-ten-cent-store jewelry they realized that I knew
a bit about the kaffir character.

Of course we had all the weapons we could use. The best sporting
rifles and revolvers were part of the equipment, though I hoped that
we should not have occasion to use them except for pot-hunting. Things
will happen in Swaziland, however, and Tuys was a great believer in
foresight.

After our rigid inspection of the outfit we returned from the kraal to
the house, where the whole party assembled for dinner. During the meal
a discussion arose as to whether it would not be a good idea to start
immediately and work our way into Swaziland on the chance of being
able to get action. Tuys maintained that we ought to start at once and
hinted mysteriously that the coronation might be arranged whether
Labotsibeni liked it or not. Knowing his propensity for taking chances
and his liking for trouble, I hesitated to encourage this idea.
Sugden, of course, wanted action and rather welcomed the thought of
trouble. Crespinell was neutral, taking the stand that anything was
better than "sticking around Ermelo," while Rossman said he did not
care whether he took pictures of peace or war. But the matter was
taken out of our hands.

At about dawn next morning Sibijaan came hammering on the door of my
room. I jumped up and let him in.

"Mzaan Bakoor, there is a messenger outside from Zombode," he
announced. "He came in the night and would not wait any longer. He
says he must see you now."

I had the man in. He was one of the old "king's messengers," but
without his distinguishing sign. His lean, hard body and muscular legs
would have singled him out, though.

"Nkoos, Lomwazi sends me to bring you a message," he said, with his
hands outstretched in salute. "He says that Sebuza will be made king
at the next new moon."

Looking back, it seems to me that we must have made a peculiar tableau
there in the bedroom dimly lighted by the coming sunrise. The savage,
with his great shield, knob-kerrie, and assegai, and the white man in
his pajamas! I will admit that the white man had his finger on the
trigger of a little 44-caliber bulldog revolver during the first part
of this interview. One does not take foolish chances in South Africa.

I asked the messenger for further details about the coronation, but
all I could learn was that Sebuza had been in the mountains undergoing
sanctification for the last six weeks and would return to Lebombo
before the new moon.

Sibijaan took care of the Swazi and saw that he was fed and given a
little drink. After which he took to the trail again, and I saw him
fade into the distance at a dog-trot just about the time we were
finishing breakfast.

His news decided the argument of the night before. The oxen were
inspanned, the mules also, and about noon we started off on our trek
for Zombode. The expedition had been the talk of Ermelo for some time,
and practically every white man and most of the kaffirs were on hand
to cheer and give us a rousing send-off. Many of our friends walked
with us until we crossed the little bridge and were lost in the
willow-groves along the river trail.

This first day the roads were excellent and we made the best speed of
any day of the trip. Before night we had gone a full twenty miles,
stopping at the fine farm of an old-fashioned Boer. Instead of camping
in the open, as we had to do for practically all the rest of the
expedition, we stopped with the farmer. I did this because I wanted my
American associates to see how real Boers live. We had a regular Boer
supper, consisting of grilled meats, such as chops, hearts, liver,
kidneys, and Boer bacon; crushed mealies, rye bread, and coffee. There
was an abundance of all this and it was cooked to the queen's taste.
The twenty-mile trek, during which we walked every foot of the way,
had given us wonderful appetites and we were able to do more than
justice to the quantities of food set out.

Following supper the old Boer became solemn, as is the custom after
the evening meal, and led us in religious services. No matter how poor
or how humble, the true Boer never forgets his "night prayers." This
is his heritage from those Huguenot ancestors. It was impressive to
see my American companions bow their heads silently as the old farmer
recited his devotions.

Prayers over, we went to the "parlor," whose chief ornaments were
almost priceless relics and skins, and staged an amateur musicale.
There was a good piano and we had our ukelele. What more could be
desired? All the kaffirs in the neighborhood gathered outside and
fairly wept for joy. It was a splendid concert, considering the
talent, and made a great hit with the farmer and his wife.

Next morning we were inspanned and on our way by dawn. It was raining,
and this made it look like bad going all day. The farmer and his wife
were up as soon as we, and had rusks and hot, strong coffee for us. It
was chilly, and the coffee was a good "pick-me-up" before a day's
trek. Before we left the Boer made us promise to stay a week with him
on our return from Swaziland. He said he would arrange a feast for us
and we would be able to play our "hand-fiddle" for all his neighbors.

By ten o'clock we had made about seven miles, and camped for breakfast
on the shores of a small lake. Our progress had been much delayed by
the rain, and this made the walking disagreeable as well. We were very
hungry for breakfast and Din performed wonders, considering that the
rain continued until an hour after we had finished. After a short rest
we started on again, and by four o'clock we had reached the banks of
the Masuto River. Here we made a good camp, pitching two additional
tents, so that we would have a mess-room and cook-house with which the
rain could not interfere. This camp was chiefly memorable for the fact
that Rossman almost had an "adventure." While Din was getting supper
ready the camera-man took a rifle and went along the river with the
intention of shooting something. He had been gone only a few minutes
when we heard a shout, followed by a shot. Sugden and Crespinell
rushed to Rossman's assistance, each with a rifle. They reached his
side to find him gazing fearsomely at a large snake whose back had
been severed by his bullet. It was a dramatic moment--especially when
Sugden picked up the snake and pointed out the fact that it must have
been dead for a week or more!

That night we were all very tired and went to sleep as early as
possible. Next morning, true to my Boer upbringing, I was up and about
before dawn. Coffee and rusks were ready soon after, and my companions
were awakened to face their third day's trek. Of course we could walk
faster than the oxen, so I pushed ahead as I knew that there was a
Mapor kraal a short distance away. We reached the kraal about five
miles ahead of the wagons, and this gave me time to show the others
their first native settlement.

All the men were away, only women and children being at home. These
all seemed to belong to a small chief of the tribe, and they informed
me that he was away on a hunting trip. Sugden and the others were
intensely interested in everything they saw and I arranged for them to
inspect the interior of a number of the huts.

I soon noticed that all the women were much taken with Rossman; in
fact, they could hardly keep their eyes off him. I found by questions
that they were fascinated by his great horn-rimmed glasses. The upshot
was that we allowed a certain few of these dusky Eves to try the
glasses on, and they were much amused thereat. We distributed about
five shillings among them and they treated us to tswala and brought us
a number of fresh eggs.

In a little while the wagons hove in sight and camped near the kraal
for breakfast. Scraps of wood and "buffalo chips" made our fire, and
presently Din had a good "feed" ready. While the cooking was going on
the little kaffirs gathered about the camp in numbers. Some of them
even drove their goats close so that they might see the white men eat.
By the time we began breakfast there were more than forty of these
little beggars squatting on their haunches near the table. They
watched every motion most intently and followed each morsel to its
destination. Every now and then I would take a piece of lump sugar
and, without looking, throw it in their direction. Instantly there
would be the fiercest sort of a scramble for the tidbit. They were
rough beyond reason, and every now and then one of them would be hurt
and crawl away for a few minutes until he had recovered. Never,
however, would he cry out or show that he felt the pain. No sooner did
our wagons leave the spot than there was a wild rush to where we had
been. They fought furiously over every scrap in the hope of finding
food that the white men had thrown away.

We kept steadily on until five o'clock that night, and then made camp.
When Din gave the supper-call at about eight o'clock, Sugden and I
went to the mess-tent to find Crespinell and Rossman sound asleep on
the floor. They were worn out by the steady walking and I did not
blame them for taking it easy. After a "shot" of Picardy brandy, we
all sat down to the best supper Gunga Din had yet given us. There was
soup, chicken curry, rice, vanilla pudding, canned fruits, and coffee.
Truly, a feast for a trek supper!

That night Sugden and the others were kept awake for some time by the
howling of several jackals. They suggested that they take their rifles
and go out and "get some of those infernal beasts!" I had to explain
to them that it would be exactly like trying to shoot the shadow of a
ghost, and they went back to bed grumbling heartily.

The next day was a bad one, rain making our progress slow and
miserable. I wanted to reach a certain point, and we forced the oxen
until noon before stopping. This trek had been too long and hurt the
brutes so that their spirit seemed broken. We camped among some very
rugged hills, and here Dr. Sugden showed us all how to handle tents
and ropes in wet weather. The ease with which he tied and untied knots
in the ropes astounded our kaffirs and filled the rest of us with envy.

The rain increased, and soon everything became soaked. It was such a
downpour that we decided to wait for it to slacken and ended by
remaining in this camp for two days. Our only amusement was to watch
Tuis, the Basuto-Bushman kaffir, in his perpetual conflict with the
other boys. Being of a different breed, he did everything in a way all
his own and, in addition, was naturally antagonistic and sulky.

[Illustration: ON THE WAY TO THE ROYAL KRAAL AT ZOMBODE

Dr. O'Neil and party going through the Valley of Heaven. The barren
mountains in the distance show the rugged nature of the country]

[Illustration: THE SECOND TRIP INTO SWAZILAND

The O'Neil caravan shortly after the draft-oxen had died and were
replaced by mules and donkeys]

[Illustration: MOTHER FEEDING HER BABY]

[Illustration: MAIDEN SINGING TO THE CROWN PRINCE SEBUZA

She is playing on the native instrument which consists of a bow and
one string]

In spite of the picturesqueness of this camp, we were very glad to
leave it. We were now in the wild country, with no farms, and the only
break in the monotony was a little wild goose shooting shortly before
we reached the Swaziland border. Our real troubles began about this
time. The oxen began to die, and it was not long before we were
absolutely stalled. We were then in camp on the border, and it looked
as though we would stay there unless I was able to get some other
animals to pull the wagon.

Finding further progress impossible, I scouted about and ran into a
kaffir living on the border who had a horse. I hired this steed--a
sorry one it was--and, following a tip given me by its owner, rode
twelve miles to see if I could talk business with a small Swazi chief
who was said to have a number of donkeys.

At first this old chief did not want to talk about donkeys at all, and
it was not until I began to talk payment first and donkeys last that
he consented to get down to business. We finally made a deal, and it
was this: I was to pay him the equivalent of one pound sterling in gin
for every day I used his donkeys. This was not such a bad bargain
because I had to have about forty of the little animals to make up for
the oxen I had lost.

The most interesting part of this transaction was to see the chief's
men harness the donkeys to our big wagon. They used bits of weed-rope,
rawhide, and a stout grass rope that they make themselves. The
harnessing took a long time and we were delayed until I began to grow
impatient, but there was nothing else to do but wait. Finally we were
off, but it was a funny looking caravan. It had been raining hard for
some days and we presently came to a little stream which was much
swollen. Here we had a terrible time. The "harness" kept breaking, and
the way the natives thrashed those poor donkeys was frightful. It
seemed to be the only method, though, and eventually we took a hand in
the punishment ourselves.

The night of the second day saw us camped at the foot of the mountain
that leads to the village of Mbabane. We found several other transport
wagons there, with three white traders whose occupation was to carry
goods from Ermelo and Carolina, the two rail stations, to Mbabane and
vice versa. These traders were much interested in our outfit, and by
treating them to drinks, fresh food, and the payment of one pound
sterling I was able to hire twelve donkeys from their caravans to
assist us to the top of the mountain. We started at dawn next day, and
by noon had reached the summit. There we rested for the balance of the
day.

My object in delaying there all the afternoon was mainly on account of
the great load of liquor in the big wagon. I did not want to bring
this through Mbabane in daylight because I had no permit to bring it
into Swaziland and I did not want to get caught doing so. I thought
that I could get by practically unobserved if I waited until after
dark and then went through the village with other wagons. Our camp at
the top of the hill was about three miles from Mbabane, and I ordered
Sibijaan to inspan and start on again at five o'clock. This would
bring him to the village at about eight o'clock, or shortly after dark.

We went ahead and called on Mr. and Mrs. Dickson, who gave us tea. It
was real English tea and we enjoyed it immensely. The Dicksons had
heard of our expedition and were much interested. Mrs. Dickson,
however, was greatly amused at our capacity for tea, since we each
drank between five and six cups. But we were dead tired and it was
wonderful to shut out the whole of Swaziland and sit down in this cozy
English home to drink decent tea poured by a white woman!

After thanking the Dicksons, I went to the little store and bought
some supplies. I also went to the hotel and bought some liquor, this
being merely for camouflage, as I wished them to think I needed it.
The supplies and liquor I gave to a native carrier, telling him to
take it to the place where we expected to camp for the night. There
were six packages in all, weighing about forty-five pounds, and it was
amusing to see this kaffir summon five others to help him. Each Swazi,
carrying his shield, knob-kerrie, and assegai, started for our camp
with a little parcel on his head.

The wagon was late. I began to be worried, for I had estimated that it
would arrive in the village about eight o'clock. I spent a nervous
hour or so waiting for it to show up, but it did not do so till about
9:30. I told Sibijaan to proceed to the camping place about two miles
further on, and we pushed ahead to be on hand when it arrived.

Soon we ran into a typical wonder-sight of that part of the country. I
had noticed a red glow in the sky off to the left, and on turning a
little hill we saw that the whole side of a mountain was one
tremendous fire. While this was at its worst, or most glorious,
height, the great red African moon came up over the mountain like a
huge ball of flame. The whole scene was so striking that Sugden
insisted we ought to take a picture of it. We hurried back to the
wagon and found a number of Swazis trailing it out of curiosity. With
the aid of a box of cigarettes, I pressed twelve of them into service
and got the cameras to the spot from which we wanted to take the
picture. While we were doing this little Swazis seemed to spring up
out of the ground, and before we had finished there must have been at
least four score of them wondering what the white men were trying to do.

Sibijaan saw a chance to air his superior knowledge and I heard him
telling these little fellows a preposterous yarn.

"You see those black boxes?" he said, pointing to the cameras. "Well,
those are the magic boxes of Nkoos Mzaan Bakoor, the great white
witch-doctor. He will look at the fire through them and soon it will
go out. If he is offended, he can make the fire burn up the whole
country and kill all the Swazis!"

I was afraid to look back and note the effect of this beautiful lie,
but I heard the kaffir exclamation of wonder--"Ou! Ou!"--from a dozen
throats and decided that my trusty henchman had gotten away with it.

By the time we had packed our cameras again the wagons had caught up
with us and we went on. The spot I had picked for the camp was under a
small grove of palm trees across a little stream, and we arrived there
to find that the six carriers had started a fire. It was about
midnight when our wagons reached camp, and soon after we rolled up in
our blankets and dropped off to sleep just where we stood.

Next morning we started down the steep slopes into the Valley of
Heaven. This was a very dangerous descent for the wagons, so that it
was after midday before we reached the floor of the valley. The poor
donkeys were completely exhausted, and we camped there until next day.

The Valley of Heaven was certainly living up to its name. It was never
so lovely, and my companions were enthusiastic in its praise. I
pointed out to them the Place of Execution and Sheba's Breasts as we
came down the mountain, and they immediately decided they would visit
both before returning to Ermelo.

Although I remember the beauties of the Valley of Heaven as though it
were yesterday, still the difficulties that befell us there made me at
that time regard it as the "Valley of Hell." We had come down about
two thousand feet and the climate was hot, moist, and uncomfortable.
Our energy was sapped, the donkeys were worn out, and our kaffir boys
were lazy beyond all use.

The trail ahead consisted of a succession of low hills cut by little
streams. Many of the inclines were steep, and I estimated that we
would be lucky if we made five or six miles a day. It was practically
impossible to judge distance, and this led me into error. I had picked
out a camping spot seemingly about six miles away, and Sugden and I
started to walk to it. The grass was six feet high in most places and
full of deadly snakes. Few of the little streams were fit to drink,
and the farther we walked the farther the chosen spot seemed to
recede. Finally we saw a fair-sized stream which we thought was two
miles away, but which turned out to be nearer four. When we reached it
we drank, after straining the water through our handkerchiefs. We were
very hot and uncomfortable, and were made supremely unhappy by the
realization that the wagon could not reach us for at least two days.

There was nothing to do but go back, and we finally reached the outfit
at sunset. The donkeys were completely exhausted, so we camped right
there. I realized that for the last thirty miles before reaching the
royal kraal at Zombode we would be lucky if we made three or four
miles a day.

Because of this experience I changed our trek time. Instead of trying
to make it in daylight, we did most of our traveling by dark. This
helped a little, but we failed to make more than a mile every two
hours, even when the going was good. To add to the misery of the trek,
the mosquitoes tormented us continually. However, these pests
introduced a little comedy into our suffering, for my companions would
recall the mosquitoes of New Jersey, U. S. A. and compare them with
those of South Africa.

Crespinell summed up the comparison when he said:

"For brutality and ruthlessness these 'skeeters take the biscuit, but
the New Jersey breed have got 'em skinned a mile when it comes to
technique!"

At the end of five days of untold hardships we climbed out of the
Valley of Heaven and reached the stream that divides the royal from
the common ground at Zombode. We arrived there at about nine o'clock
at night.

Fires were burning in front of many of the huts and there was a hum of
life in the air. The sounds were all the more noticeable because no
one appeared to have any intention of meeting us or giving us a
welcome. We pitched camp and Din prepared the evening meal. By this
time we had a score of little visitors, all Swazi children of about
ten or twelve years of age. Usually these little beggars are in bed at
this time of night, but the noise of our wagons had aroused them and
they had sneaked out of the huts to investigate.

None of the indunas, warriors, or women came near us, and I soon
realized that we were in disfavor for some reason or other. Only a
direct command from Lomwazi or the old queen would have made the
people avoid us in this manner. However, it was not fitting that I
should visit the royal kraal without invitation, so I did not stir
from our camp that night. In the morning I announced my arrival to
Labotsibeni without the indignity of supplicating an interview. This
came about in a peculiar manner.

Shortly after dawn I was awakened by the deep bass of a native who
seemingly was greatly annoyed. The voice was strangely familiar, but I
could not place it for the moment. In a little while Sibijaan came
into the tent with my coffee and announced that I had a visitor.

"Ou Baas, there is a great induna outside," he said, "and he wants to
see you. He says he is very angry. Shall I tell him to go to hell?"

Thirsting for information regarding things at the royal kraal, I bade
Sibijaan send him in. This my old playmate did with poor grace, since
he would have preferred to be cheeky to the chief.

To my surprise, Manaan--he of the savings-bank account--strode in. He
was carrying his war tools and stood facing me for an instant in quite
a belligerent attitude. I was wearing only a thin bathrobe and for a
second or two the angry black man faced the white. Then the age-old
supremacy of race asserted itself and Manaan dropped his eyes with the
familiar "Nkoos!"

"What the devil is the matter with you?" I demanded angrily. "Why do
you make all this row so early in the morning?"

"Peace, Nkoos, peace!" the old induna answered. "I did not know that
it was you. I would not have made talk if I had known."

Then he went on to explain that our donkeys had strayed across the
stream during the night and had ruined his corn patch. He insisted
that the poor beasts had eaten all the young corn and that he and all
his wives faced starvation during the coming year. What he really was
worried about, it developed, was that there would be no corn to make
tswala and in consequence he would have to go without his beer until a
new crop came in.

I sympathized with him and told him that I would go over and see the
damage as soon as I was up and about, agreeing to pay him for it. I
felt sure that he was lying, but did not want to make an enemy of him,
since I knew that he was said to be close to Labotsibeni. In the olden
days he was leader of one of Buno's crack impis and was a noted warrior.

In a little while I accompanied him to look at the ruined crop, and,
as I suspected, found he had lied like a kaffir. The damage was about
three shillings worth, and I told him so and offered to pay him the
money. He became very indignant.

"This is not right, Nkoos!" he almost shouted. "I am a great induna
and cannot be treated in this way. I am one of the queen's most
important chiefs and I shall report this injustice to her."

Now this threat suited me. If the old fool reported that I was robbing
him, he would also be notifying Labotsibeni that I was in the
neighborhood.

"I am willing to abide by what the queen decides," I said. "You tell
her that I await her word. I shall state my side to her, and you can
state yours!"

This was what I really wanted. It would bring me before the old queen
and allow me to ask her about the coronation. With this understanding
Manaan left for the royal kraal, while I went to breakfast. Shortly
after we had finished, Manaan returned.

"I have seen the queen," he announced in an important manner, "and she
is much offended because you have treated Manaan so unjustly. She says
that you must pay me five shillings and a bottle of gin, and then the
debt will be satisfied."

To make the payment seem greater I protested for a moment and then
gave it to the old fellow. I asked him how the queen was, but he
answered evasively. This brought the suspicion that he had not seen
Labotsibeni at all and had concocted the story about her decision as
to the payment. Manaan would have been quite capable of this because
he had lived for some time among the whites in Johannesburg and had
been schooled in guile.

Nevertheless, I was satisfied that he had brought word to the royal
kraal that I was there, and I expected that I would soon receive a
message from the queen to come and see her. When the sun showed that
it was nearly noon I decided to force her hand and sent Sibijaan with
presents, which means gin, to the royal kraal. He returned presently,
saying that Lomwazi had taken them from him and that they had been
accepted by the queen.

Sunset came and yet there was no word from the old lady, and I began
to grow anxious. I sent for Manaan and cultivated him in an attempt to
get some information. He soon became drunk and told me many little
things, none of which threw much light on my problem. One statement,
however, was important.

"All the people, except Lomwazi and a few of those close to the queen,
want Sebuza to be king," he said. "They are tired of being ruled by a
queen, and Lomwazi asks too much. He always wants more cattle and corn
from each kraal, and the people are dissatisfied. Even now they are
waiting for Sebuza to come down out of the mountains and it is said
they will demand that he be made king then!"

Part of this was very interesting. I was glad to know that the people
wanted Sebuza, but I doubted that they would dare to ask for him to be
appointed king. The Swazis are subservient to their rulers and it was
unthinkable that they would assume to ask Labotsibeni to abdicate.
They were very afraid of the old queen; she seemed to exert some sort
of extraordinary influence over them. It was cheering, however, to
know that I had public opinion on my side.

CHAPTER XVI

Labotsibeni refuses to see me--Sugden and my men escape
assassination--A fruitless conference--We flee to Lebombo--Oom Tuys
turns up--We confer with Queen Tzaneen and Lochien--Five-and-ten-cent-
store jewelry has persuasive powers--Sugden falls ill--We build his
coffin--Sebuza returns from his sanctification.

Next morning I got up, pocketed my pride, and decided to call on Queen
Labotsibeni. When I reached the entrance of the royal kraal I was met
by Lomwazi. He was furtive in manner and did not look me in the eyes.
His voice, as usual, was quite low, and for once his dramatic gestures
were lacking.

I demanded to be allowed to see Labotsibeni. Lomwazi shook his head
and spread out his hands deprecatingly.

"The queen will not see you, Nkoos," he said, "and she sends word that
you are not to camp on the royal ground."

"But why won't she see me? I bring her presents and much gin," I
protested. "She promised that I should attend the coronation of Prince
Sebuza!"

"She is very, very old, but still she doesn't want to die," added the
wily Lomwazi, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.

At last I understood. Lomwazi had let the cat out of the bag and the
delay in the coronation of Sebuza explained itself. Tempted by the
great price I had offered for the picture rights--five hundred cattle,
five hundred gallons of gin, and five hundred pounds in gold--the old
queen had overlooked the fact that Sebuza's accession to the throne
meant her death. At the time I made the bargain with her, or with
Lomwazi as her agent, she had consoled herself with the thought that
the British Government would be able to save her life. Now she was
afraid that the government might not be able to do so and wanted the
coronation delayed indefinitely, or put off for good.

Labotsibeni and Lomwazi were in an uncomfortable position. They faced
either the certainty of being sacrificed when Sebuza mounted the
throne or the breaking of their contract with me. In addition, the
sentiment of the people of Swaziland was against the old ruler and
Lomwazi must have known it. Under Labotsibeni there had been more than
twenty years of peace, and there had grown up a feeling that the
nation was becoming decadent without a war, if only a little one
against some inferior tribe. The British had backed the old queen in
all her moves toward keeping peace within her borders, and the
fighting men of Swaziland were unhappy at not having any opportunities
to show their mettle. From the days of Ama-Swazi the Swazis had been a
warlike people, and the bloodthirsty Buno had developed their ferocity
by frequent raids and forays on neighboring tribes. The accession of
Sebuza, young and warlike, made the Swazis feel that they would have a
real leader again, and the fact that the crown prince was the son of
Buno added to their desire for him to reign.

I had left Oom Tuys in Ermelo with the understanding that he would
join us in Zombode. I began to wish he would show up, since I seemed
to be butting my stubborn Boer head against a brick wall and my uncle