The Complete Oom Schalk Lourens Stories

by Herman Charles Bosman

  Herman Charles Bosman

  The Complete

  Oom Schalk Lourens

  Stories

  Edited by

  Craig MacKenzie

  Human & Rousseau

  Preface

  Bosman’s Oom Schalk Lourens is a literary creation without equal in South African literature. Precedents there are aplenty, to be sure (one thinks of Ernest Glanville’s ‘Uncle Abe Pike’, Perceval Gibbon’s ‘Vrouw Grobelaar’, Pauline Smith’s ‘Koenraad’ or Jean Blignaut’s ‘Hottentot Ruiter’), but no storyteller figure looms as large in the popular imagination as Oom Schalk. His famous boast, “… I can tell the best stories of anybody in the Transvaal …” (“Mafeking Road”, 1935), has gone unchallenged for the seventy years since it was first uttered.

  Remarkably, Bosman got the formula right from the outset: his two earliest Oom Schalk stories – “Makapan’s Caves” (1930) and “The Rooinek” (1931) – have remained classics despite the author’s relative youth (25) and the many later gems that might well have eclipsed them. Subsequent refinements there certainly were: both early stories are somewhat overwritten, and “Makapan’s Caves” even used the cumbersome and unnecessary device of inverted commas to denote Oom Schalk’s narrative voice. But all of the characteristic irony, humour and pathos that were later to become so famous were present in these first efforts.

  There were two main forms of influence on Bosman’s creation, one literary and the other contextual. Bosman’s liking for the American yarnsters in the Mark Twain and Bret Harte mould is well documented, and he also delighted in collecting tales by local practitioners of the ‘tall tale’ genre (some of which duly appeared in his Veld-trails and Pavements collection of 1949).

  But these literary models found real-life equivalents in the Groot Marico District, to which Bosman was sent as a young and impressionable teacher in January 1926. The next six months in the young man’s life were to prove momentous: he was exposed to a community poor in material wealth but rich in the art of storytelling. Sent out to convert the people of this region to the alphabet and literacy, he was instead won over by their own spellbinding mastery of oral narrative. Stories about the Anglo-Boer wars and tribal skirmishes, about life in the Boer Republics of Stellaland, Goshen and Ohrigstad, about local legend and lore were all eagerly absorbed by the young school-teacher over coffee on the farm stoep or in the voorkamer.

  Later in life he was able to draw on this deep reservoir of material in over 150 stories spanning some twenty years, and this work established his reputation as one of South Africa’s most popular and enduring writers. It also brought a unique region of the country to the public’s attention: “There is no other place I know,” Bosman later remarked (“Marico Revisited”, November 1944), “that is so heavy with atmosphere, so strangely and darkly im­pregnated with that stuff of life that bears the authentic stamp of South Africa.”

  The first collection of Oom Schalks appeared under Bosman’s own direction as Mafeking Road in 1947. It was rapturously re­ceived by the public and quickly established itself as a major South African classic, going into six editions and innumerable impressions in the years since its first appearance. For sixty years it has never been out of print. Bosman’s premature death thwarted his intention to release a second Oom Schalk collection, which he apparently intended to title ‘Seed-time and Harvest’. In 2001, a volume with this title appeared in the fourteen-volume Anniversary Edition of Bosman’s works, and was followed in 2002 by Unto Dust and Other Stories, which completed the sequence.

  Here between the covers of one volume for the first time, however, all sixty of these Oom Schalks are gathered, together with the illustrations that originally accompanied them. For, celebrated though Oom Schalk may be, the talented illustrators who contributed richly to the way his stories originally appeared have all but been forgotten. Here an attempt is made to recuperate this unique aspect of the Schalk Lourens story. H. E. Winder, A. E. Mason, Wilfrid Cross, Reginald Turvey, René Shapshak, Maurice van Essche and Abe Berry were giants of the magazine and art world of the period 1930 to 1960, and, as any survey of periodicals from the 1930s through to the 1950s will show, Bosman was highly regarded by these men. No other writer of the period was able to attract such a range of creative talent – or, for that matter, induce editors to make available the extra space and cover the expense that illustrations involve.

  As the notes on the illustrators reveal (see “Bosman’s Illus­trators”), Bosman either knew these men personally, or knew of and actually reviewed their work. He took local art very seriously, and made the time to view it in the various exhibitions that he enthusiastically attended both in Johannesburg and Cape Town. This aspect of Bosman is little known, and perhaps the present volume will restore it to the public’s attention.

  Two principles govern the sequencing of the stories here: publication chronology and publication venue. Fortunately, these dovetail neatly, because Bosman tended (until the last years, at least) to place his stories in one magazine until this was no longer viable and then move on to the next. So I was able to cluster the stories according to where they were published without significantly disrupting the publication sequence.

  The Oom Schalk Lourens sequence as a whole can be divided into three broad phases: early stories (1930–31); those he wrote in London (1934–37); and those he wrote upon his return to South Africa in 1940 until his death in 1951. This last grouping has been further sub-divided for ease of reading – again, largely on the basis of where stories were first published. (A detailed contextua­lisation of the stories and the periodicals in which they appeared is offered in “Notes on the Stories.”)

  Bosman’s achievement is to have created a character who has far outlived the time and place in which he is putatively situated. This is because Oom Schalk Lourens is only apparently simple, prejudiced and narrow-minded. He has endured as a much-loved South African literary figure because his humane vision extends to embrace all of South Africa, and all South Africans. He therefore speaks to us today as poignantly, beguilingly and movingly as he did when he made his first appearance seventy-six years ago.

  On the dust-jacket of the first edition of Mafeking Road the following description of him appeared. Probably written by Bosman himself, it goes unrivalled to this day:

  Each of the stories here presented is identified with the central character, Oom Schalk Lourens, an old Boer farmer, who has seen all the way into life, but whose experiences have not embittered him; and who retains, in spite of his Calvinistic outlook and background, and in spite of all his narrow backveld prejudices (and he has them in good measure), a warm kindliness of disposition, irradiating the stories he tells with a sincere and strangely moving humanity.

  Craig MacKenzie

  Johannesburg, 2006

  The Touleier Years

  (1930–31)

  Makapan’s Caves

  Kaffirs? (said Oom Schalk Lourens). Yes, I know them. And they’re all the same. I fear the Almighty, and I respect His works, but I could never understand why He made the kaffir and the rinderpest. The Hottentot is a little better. The Hottentot will only steal the biltong hanging out on the line to dry. He won’t steal the line as well. That is where the kaffir is different.

  Still, sometimes you come across a good kaffir, who is faithful and upright and a true Christian and doesn’t let the wild-dogs catch the sheep. I always think that it isn’t right to kill that kind of kaffir.

  I remember about one kaffir we had, by the name of Nongaas. How we got him was after this fashion. It was in the year of the big drought, when there was no grass, and the water in the pan had dried up. Our cattle died li
ke flies. It was terrible. Every day ten or twelve or twenty died. So my father said we must pack everything on the wagons and trek up to the Dwarsberge, where he heard there had been good rains. I was six years old, then, the youngest in the family. Most of the time I sat in the back of the wagon, with my mother and my two sisters. My brother Hendrik was seventeen, and he helped my father and the kaffirs to drive on our cattle. That was how we trekked. Many more of our cattle died along the way, but after about two months we got into the Lowveld and my father said that God had been good to us. For the grass was green along the Dwarsberge.

  One morning we came to some kaffir huts, where my father bartered two sacks of mealies for a roll of tobacco. A piccanin of about my own age was standing in front of a hut, and he looked at us all the time and grinned. But mostly he looked at my brother Hen­drik. And that was not a wonder, either. Even in those days my brother Hendrik was careful about his appearance, and he always tried to be fashionably dressed. On Sundays he even wore socks. When we had loaded up the mealies, my father cut off a plug of Boer tobacco and gave it to the piccanin, who grinned still more, so that we saw every one of his teeth, which were very white. He put the plug in his mouth and bit it. Then we all laughed. The piccanin looked just like a puppy that has swallowed a piece of meat, and turns his head sideways, to see how it tastes.

  That was in the morning. We went right on until the afternoon, for my father wanted to reach Tweekoppiesfontein, where we were going to stand with our cattle for some time. It was late in the afternoon when we got there, and we started to outspan. Just as I was getting off the wagon, I looked round and saw something jumping quickly behind a bush. It looked like some animal, so I was afraid, and told my brother Hendrik, who took up his gun and walked slowly towards the bush. We saw, directly afterwards, that it was the piccanin whom we had seen that morning in front of the hut. He must have been following behind our wagons for about ten miles. He looked dirty and tired, but when my brother went up to him he began to grin again, and seemed very happy. We didn’t know what to do with him, so Hendrik shouted to him to go home, and started throwing stones at him. But my father was a merciful man, and after he had heard Nongaas’s story – for that was the name of the piccanin – he said he could stay with us, but he must be good, and not tell lies and steal, like the other kaffirs. Nongaas told us in the Sechuana language, which my father understood, that his father and mother had been killed by the lions, and that he was living with his uncle, whom he didn’t like, but that he liked my brother Hendrik, and that was why he had followed our wagons.

  Nongaas remained with us for many years. He grew up with us. He was a very good kaffir, and as time went by he became much attached to all of us. But he worshipped my brother Hen­drik. As he grew older, my father sometimes spoke to Nongaas about his soul, and explained to him about God. But although he told my father that he understood, I could see that whenever Nongaas thought of God, he was really only thinking of Hendrik.

  It was just after my twenty-first birthday that we got news that Hermanus Potgieter and his whole family had been killed by a kaffir tribe under Makapan. They also said that, after killing him, the kaffirs stripped off old Potgieter’s skin and made wallets out of it in which to carry their dagga. It was very wicked of the kaffirs to have done that, especially as dagga makes you mad and it is a sin to smoke it. A commando was called up from our district to go and attack the tribe and teach them to have respect for the white man’s laws – and above all, to have more respect for the white man’s skin. My mother and sisters baked a great deal of harde beskuit, which we packed up, together with mealie-meal and biltong. We also took out the lead mould and melted bullets. The next morning my brother and I set out on horseback for Makapan’s kraal. We were accompanied by Nongaas, whom we took along with us to look after the horses and light the fires. My father stayed at home. He said that he was too old to go on commando, unless it was to fight the redcoats, if there were still any left.

  But he gave us some good advice.

  “Don’t forget to read your Bible, my sons,” he called out as we rode away. “Pray the Lord to help you, and when you shoot al­ways aim for the stomach.” These remarks were typical of my father’s deeply religious nature, and he also knew that it was easier to hit a man in the stomach than in the head: and it is just as good, because no man can live long after his intestines have been shot away.

  Well, we rode on, my brother and I, with Nongaas following a few yards behind us on the pack-horse. Now and again we fell in with other burghers, many of whom brought their wagons with them, until, on the third day, we reached Makapan’s kraal, where the big commando had already gone into camp. We got there in the evening, and everywhere as far as we could see there were fires burning in a big circle. There were over two hundred wagons, and on their tents the fires shone red and yellow. We reported ourselves to the veldkornet, who showed us a place where we could camp, next to the four Van Rensburg brothers. Nongaas had just made the fire and boiled the coffee when one of the Van Rens­burgs came up and invited us over to their wagon. They had shot a rietbok and were roasting pieces of it on the coals.

  We all shook hands and said it was good weather for the mealies if only the ruspes didn’t eat them, and that it was time we had another president, and that rietbok tasted very fine when roasted on the coals. Then they told us what had happened about the kaffirs. Makapan and his followers had seen the commandos coming from a distance, and after firing a few shots at them had all fled into the caves in the krantz. These caves stretched away underground very far and with many turnings. So, as the Boers could not storm the kaffirs without losing heavily, the kommandant gave instructions that the ridge was to be surrounded and the kaffirs starved out. They were all inside the caves, the whole tribe, men, women and children. They had already been there six days, and as they couldn’t have much food left, and as there was only a small dam with brackish water, we were hopeful of being able to kill off most of the kaffirs without wasting ammunition.

  Already, when the wind blew towards us from the mouth of the caves, the stink was terrible. We would have pitched our camp further back, only that we were afraid some of the kaffirs would escape between the fires.

  The following morning I saw for the first time why we couldn’t drive the kaffirs from their lairs, even though our commando was four hundred strong. All over, through the rocks and bushes, I could see black openings in the krantz that led right into the deep parts of the earth. Here and there we could see dead bodies lying. But there were still left a lot of kaffirs that were not dead, and them we could not see. But they had guns, which they had bought from the illicit traders and the missionaries, and they shot at us whenever we came within range. And all the time there was that stench of decaying bodies.

  For another week the siege went on. Then we heard that our leaders, Marthinus Wessels Pretorius and Paul Kruger, had quarrelled. Kruger wanted to attack the kaffirs immediately and finish the affair, but Pretorius said it was too dangerous and he didn’t want any more burghers killed. He said that already the hand of the Lord lay heavy upon Makapan, and in another few weeks the kaffirs would all be dead of starvation. But Paul Kruger said that it would even be better if the hand of the Lord lay still heavier upon the kaffirs. Eventually Paul Kruger obtained permission to take fifty volunteers and storm the caves from one side, while Kommandant Piet Potgieter was to advance from the other side with two hundred men, to distract the attention of the kaffirs. Kruger was popular with all of us, and nearly everyone volunteered to go with him. So he picked fifty men, among whom were the Van Rensburgs and my brother. Therefore, as I did not want to stay behind and guard the camp, I had to join Piet Potgieter’s commando.

  All the preparations were made, and the following morning we got ready to attack. My brother Hendrik was very proud and happy at having been chosen for the more dangerous part. He oiled his gun very carefully and polished up his veldskoens.

  Then Nongaas came up and I noticed that he looked very
miserable.

  “My baas,” he said to my brother Hendrik, “you mustn’t go and fight. They’ll shoot you dead.”

  My brother shook his head.

  “Then let me go with you, baas,” Nongaas said; “I will go in front and look after you.”

  Hendrik only laughed.

  “Look here, Nongaas,” he said, “you can stay behind and cook the dinner. I will get back in time to eat it.”

  The whole commando came together and we all knelt down and prayed. Then Marthinus Wessels Pretorius said we must sing Hymn Number 23, “Rest my soul, thy God is king.” Furthermore, we sang another hymn and also a psalm. Most people would have thought that one hymn would be enough. But not so Pretorius. He always made quite sure of everything he did. Then we moved off to the attack. We fought bravely, but the kaffirs were many, and they lay in the darkness of the caves, and shot at us without our being able to see them. While the fighting lasted it was worse than the lyddite bombs at Paardeberg. And the stench was terrible. We tied handkerchiefs round the lower part of our face, but that did not help. Also, since we were not Englishmen, many of us had no handkerchiefs. Still we fought on, shooting at an enemy we could not see. We rushed right up to the mouth of one of the caves, and even got some distance into it, when our leader, Kom­mandant Piet Potgieter, flung up his hands and fell backwards, shot through the breast. We carried him out, but he was quite dead. So we lost heart and retired.

  When we returned from the fight we found that the other attacking party had also been defeated. They had shot many kaffirs, but there were still hundreds of them left, who fought all the more fiercely with hunger gnawing at their bellies.

  I went back to our camp. There was only Nongaas, sitting forward on a stone, with his face on his arms. An awful fear clutched me as I asked him what was wrong.