stores. We made a huge bonfire of the surplus, and I well remember how
well the ham and bacon burned. We regretted burning all these good
things, but, as a matter of fact, we were better without them. Laying
in a stock of native grain we pushed off into the current and swung
down-stream.
It was the rainy season and the discomforts we suffered were sometimes
acute. Almost immediately on quitting the chief’s village we entered a
region where hard ground rose only a few inches above water level. Great
areas were entirely covered by water, only the tops of the 12-foot grass
showing above it. Whenever we turned one of the many bends of the river,
and these were hard banks, there would be a continuous line of splashes,
which advanced with us as the crocodiles plunged in. The waters teemed
with fish, especially the lung-fish, which continued rising night and day
to breathe, as we supposed.
In this swamp country every night was a time of horror, and camping a
perfect nightmare. Well before the sun was down the mosquitoes appeared
in myriads. Luckily our boys had each been provided with a mosquito net.
These nets I had procured with a watertight canvas roof so that they also
acted as small tents. They could be slung between sticks or paddles stuck
in the ground. Without these nets no man could long survive the quite
serious loss of blood and sleep; for, to add to our troubles, firewood
was non-existent. In the hot, sweltering nights, when it was not raining,
the moon would appear almost obliterated by the clouds of mosquitoes
hanging to the net, while the massed hum seemed to be continuous. And yet
there was no fever among us, presumably because of the lack of infection
sources. Several times no dry spot could be found and we stuck it out as
best we could on the canoes.
Of game we saw nothing except elephant. No buck or buffalo nor even hippo
in that desolate region. How numerous elephant were I cannot say, as we
never hunted them unless we actually saw them from the canoes. Low on the
water as we were and with high grass everywhere, it was necessary for the
animals to be within a few yards of the bank in order to come within our
view. Hunting thus we killed some 30 bulls as we drifted along. Allowing
that we killed half we saw, that would mean that 60 bull elephant crossed
our narrow path at the moment we were there or thereabouts. If the region
were only a few miles deep on either bank and were frequented on a
similar scale, it would indicate an enormous number of elephant. We took
little heed of cows, but of these quite a hundred came within our view.
All our boys being Mohammedans, we two whites were the only eaters of
elephant meat. Luckily for the others, fish were easily caught.
At one place where we killed elephant we found a raised piece of ground
perhaps three or four feet above the water. It even had three trees
on it. We were simply delighted to reach shore again, and as we had
killed six good bulls that day the camp was merry—at any rate, the white
portion of it. As we were obliged to wait here three or four days for
the elephant to rot before drawing the tusks, we pitched our tents and
made everything comfortable. In the night a terrific rain storm blew
up, and when it was at its height red ants invaded us. My companion was
got first, and had to vacate his bed and tent. I could hear him cursing
between the thunder claps. Presently he came into my tent, quite naked,
as they had got into his pyjamas. I told him to lay a trail of paraffin
all round the tent, while I proceeded to tuck my net well in all round
me. As he was laying the trail the rising water came rushing in, bearing
with it thousands of desperate ants. They swarmed up everything they
touched. I lay, as I thought, secure, my companion fled, slapping and
brushing his naked legs and cursing dreadfully.
For some time the enemy failed to penetrate my fine-mesh net, but when
they did get me they all got me at once. Without two thoughts I was out
in the pouring rain and throwing off my pyjamas. After brushing off the
fiery hot devils I found they were mounting my legs just as fast. My
companion yelled through the storm to get up on an up-turned bucket. I
found one at last and mounted. And thus we rode it out.
There was bad “medicine” in that camp, for next day my companion got
gassed when he drew a tusk, and was violently sick; and while carrying
the tusk back to camp stepped on a huge fish, while wading through mud
and water, which threw him headlong into it.
We were now obliged to cast gear in order to carry ivory. Spare axes,
tools and camp gear went first, and finally provisions and tents. At last
we could take nothing more aboard and float. We left fine ivory standing
on the banks. We had formed the idea of returning, properly equipped,
for this inland navigation, and headed down-stream with about two inches
freeboard. Our sluggish Gelo bore us slowly into the sluggish Pibor which
pushed us gently into the livelier Sobat. On our way down this river to
the Nile we were so short of food and the usual wherewithal to buy it
that we were obliged to part with one of our tusks for native grain,
fowls, and a couple of sheep. We camped frequently by the villages of the
Nuers, and were astonished to learn on our arrival at the Nile that we
were then at war with this tribe.
I am inclined to think that we were rather lucky to have come through the
sudd region of the Gelo so easily. At one place the open channel divided
equally into two, and we debated which one we should follow. We tossed,
and the paddle decided on the right-hand channel. We followed it, but
never saw where the other channel rejoined.
After reaching the more open waters of the Sobat the lightest breeze
raised sufficient lop on the water to come aboard with our dangerously
low freeboard. As it was, we were caught about mid-stream once, and
before we could reach the bank the whole flotilla settled down. Luckily,
we were only a few yards from shore and in about ten feet of water. Our
boys were magnificent, and got everything up while we plugged shots into
the water to keep off crocs. Had we foundered further out, the whole of
our ivory and rifles, etc., would have been lost.
The hunting of elephant in this swamp region was of the severest
description. That is the reason of their congregating there in such
numbers, I think. The ground was too rotten for ponies or mules, even
should they survive the myriads of flies and mosquitoes. The grass was
mostly the 12-foot stuff with razor-like edges and countless, almost
invisible spines, which stick into exposed limbs. Locomotion for humans
was only possible when following elephant tracks. When within even a
few paces of the animals it was generally impossible to see them. I
used to mount on a boy’s shoulder and fire from there, but the stance
was so wobbly and the view so obstructed by grass tops as to make it
most unsatisfactory. Having a large telescope mounted on a stout tripod
I fitted a tiny board to fix on the tripod top, and found it most
satisfactory; although the jump from my rifle, slight as it was, knocked
me off once or twice.
On this safari the health of everyone was excellent, considering the hard
work and poor food. We whites were troubled somewhat with indigestion,
caused I think by our native-grain flour having got wet, and fermented
a bit. There was practically no fever, and my tough old Swahilis came
through without turning a hair. The Arabs, however, lost condition.
[Illustration: A SHOT FROM THE SHOULDERS OF A TALL NATIVE: A VERY WOBBLY
METHOD.]
[Illustration: TELESCOPE TRIPOD AS STAND IN HIGH GRASS.]
VIII
THE LADO ENCLAVE
At the time of which I write the Enclave de Lado comprised the country
bordering the western bank of the Upper Nile from Lado on the north to
Mahazi in the south. It was leased to Leopold, King of the Belgians,
for the duration of his life and for six months after his death. This
extension of the lease was popularly supposed to be for the purpose of
enabling the occupiers to withdraw and remove their gear.
While the King was still alive and the Enclave occupied by the Congo
authorities, I stepped ashore one day at Lado, the chief administrative
post in the northern part. Luckily for me, the Chef de Zone was there,
and I immediately announced my business, the hunting of elephant. The
Chef was himself a great shikari, and told me he held the record for the
(then) Congo Free State, with a bag of forty-seven, I think it was. He
was most kind and keenly interested in my project, and promised to help
in every way he could.
As regards permission to hunt, he told me that if I merely wished to
shoot one or two elephants, he could easily arrange that on the spot,
but that if I wanted to hunt elephant extensively, I should require a
permit from the Governor, who lived at Boma, at the mouth of the Congo.
The price of this permit was £20, and it was good for five months in one
year. It was quite unlimited and, of course, was a gift to anyone who
knew the game. The Belgians, however, seemed to think that the demanding
of 500 frs. for a permit to hunt such dangerous animals was in the nature
of pure extortion; they regarded as mad anyone who paid such a sum for
such a doubtful privilege.
I was, naturally, very eager to secure such a permit, especially when the
Chef told me of the uncountable herds of elephants he had seen in the
interior. By calculation it was found that the permit, if granted, would
arrive at Lado in good time for the opening of the season, three months
hence. I deposited twenty golden sovereigns with the Treasury, copied out
a flowery supplication to the Governor for a permit, which my friend the
Chef drafted for me, and there was nothing more to do but wait.
My visit to Lado was my first experience of Belgian domestic
arrangements. The Chef de Zone lived entirely apart from the other
officers, but with this exception they all messed together. The Chef
himself was most exclusive; he gave me to understand, in fact, he
regarded his subordinate whites as “scum.” He gave me many cryptic
warnings to have no dealings with them, all of which were rather lost
on me then, as I had never hitherto come in contact with white men just
like that. When, therefore, I was invited to dine at the mess I accepted,
little knowing what I was in for.
The mess-room was a large room, or rather a large thatched roof standing
on many pillars of sun-dried brick. In place of walls nothing more
substantial than mosquito netting interposed itself between the diners
and the gaze of the native multitude, comprising the station garrison,
and so on. This system of architecture suits the climate admirably,
its sole drawback being its publicity. For when the inmates of such a
structure have the playful dinner habits of our forefathers, without
their heads, and try to drink each other under the table, and when,
moreover, the casualties are removed by native servants from that
ignominious position one after the other, speechless, prostrate and
puking, naturally the whole affair becomes a kind of “movie” show, with
sounds added, for the native population. When, for instance, the Chef
de Post, whose image is intimately connected in most of the spectators’
minds with floggings, ambitiously tries to mount the table, fails and
falls flat, the “thunders of applause” of our newspapers best describe
the reception of his downfall by the audience.
At the dinner in question we started well. One member of the mess
contributed five dozen of bottled beer. Another a case of whisky. A
demi-john or two of the rough ration table wine rendered somewhat
alcoholic by the vagaries of wine in the Tropics was also available; but
the effort of the evening was when a sporting Count produced a bottle of
Curaçao. We sat down.
Directly in front of me, in the usual position, I found some plates, a
knife, fork and spoon. But on three sides I was surrounded by eggs. There
were, I think, three dozen of them. On looking round I observed that
each diner was similarly provided. Then soup arrived, very strong, good
and liberally flavoured with garlic. It was made from buffalo killed by
the Post’s native hunters. Meanwhile I noticed my neighbours handing out
their eggs to the boys and giving instructions regarding them. I was at a
loss. Hitherto I had regarded my eggs as being boiled and ready to eat,
all the time mildly wondering how I was to eat so many. Then I caught the
word omelette pass my neighbour’s lips as he handed a dozen or two to the
boy. I tumbled to it. They were raw and you simply handed them out as you
fancied, to be turned into fried, poached, boiled eggs or omelettes. What
a capital idea! I set aside a dozen for an omelette, a half dozen to be
fried, and a half dozen to be poached. I thought that if I got through
that lot I should have enough.
The next dish appeared and was placed before the senior officer at the
head of the table. It looked to me like a small mountain of mashed
beetroot. Into its sugar-loaf apex the officer dug a large wooden salad
spoon, turning in one rotary motion its perfect sugar-loaf shape into
that of an extinct volcano. With deft and practised hand he then broke
egg after egg, raw, into the yawning crater. His spare dozen or so were
quickly swallowed up and more were supplied. As well as I could judge,
the contents of the eggs were in no case examined. To anyone acquainted
with the average African egg this means a lot.
On to the sulphur-splotched and quivering mass pepper and salt were
liberally poured; then vinegar and a vigorous stirring prepared it
for presentation to the one bewildered and suffering guest. I took a
moderate helping of the red crater slopes, avoiding the albuminous
morass, wondering how you handled it anyhow and what would happen if
you broke the containing walls. I watched the dish go the rounds with
great interest, hoping someone would be too bold with the large spoon,
prematurely burst the crater and be engulfed in the ensuing flood. But,
alas! with marvellous dexterity man after man hoicked out a plateful of
the nauseating stuff without accident. They were used to it.
Now I tried a taste of the minced beetroot lying before me. It wasn’t
beetroot at all. It was raw buffalo flesh. I did not like it awfully.
Why, I do not know. I have always admired, theoretically, men who eat raw
meat. When I saw the Abyssinians eating their meat raw I did not admire
them particularly, and now when I saw the Belgians eating it raw I did
not seem to admire them either. And yet when I read of Sandow and the
crack boxers eating raw meat I admired them. Perhaps it is the sight of
men eating raw meat which stops the admiration, or, perhaps, the men who
can safely eat raw meat must be admirable to begin with. Anyhow, this lot
revolted me, to the complete extinction of my usually robust appetite.
It only recovered when cake was served up with syrup and you poured wine
over it, an excellent sweet.
Drinking had meanwhile been going steadily on. I would say that by the
time the cake came on each man had absorbed two litres of 18 per cent.
wine. I was diligently pressed to drink, but managed to avoid more than
my share. I excused myself by saying that I was not used to it, and had
rather a light and unreliable head anyhow. As this was really a fact,
I was rather astonished to notice that already some of the diners were
beginning to show unmistakable signs of deep drinking. I subsequently
discovered that while there was liquor in the station the drinking of it
went on more or less night and day.
Towards the end of the meal some bottles of fine wine were produced and
ran their course. After dinner beer was produced and diligently dealt
with as a preliminary to the drinking of the case of whisky. This latter
was regarded as serious drinking, requiring careful preparation. I have
noticed the same curious attitude towards whisky in Frenchmen also. They
affect to regard it as a frightfully potent and insidious drink. One
will often see an absinthe-sodden toper take a ludicrously small tot
of whisky, drowning it with a quart of water on the score of its great
strength.
They began to taunt me with not drinking level. Stupid remarks were made
about Englishmen and their inability to drink. I helped myself to a
moderately large peg of whisky—which was good—and drank.
Now, they took this act to be a direct challenge. Here was a miserable
Englishman taking far more whisky and far less water than they themselves
were in the habit of taking. It was enough. The man to whom I passed
the bottle had to go one better, taking a large peg; and so it went
on progressing round the table until, about half-way, the bottle was
finished. More were soon brought, uncorked and placed ready. When it
came to a man opposite me I could see his hand tremble as with pale
determination he poured out what he believed to be the strongest liquor
in the world. With shouts of defiance the second bottle was drained,
having passed up about four places. From noisy drinking the affair passed
into a disorderly debauch. Diner after diner fell and was removed, until
there remained seated but two men and myself. One was a Dane of fine
physique, and the other was the Belgian Count. We looked at each other
and smiled. We all thought we were strictly sober, but the Count, at any
rate, was mistaken; for, when he rose to fetch another bottle of Curaçao
from his boxes, he, too, joined the casualties. The Dane and I carried
him to his bed, found his keys in his trouser pocket, unlocked his boxes
and found the liquor, soberly drank the contents round the corpse of the
fallen and toasted the Count with the dregs of his excellent stuff as the
sun came blazing over the horizon and the station sweepers got busy.
That Dane was hard at work an hour afterwards.
I had now some two months to while away somehow until my hunting permit
should arrive. I took a flying trip down through Uganda and got together
a fine lot of Wanyamweze porters ready for the hunting when it should
begin. I took sixty of these boys, as I was pretty confident of getting
the permit, and quite confident of getting elephant, anyhow. I arrived
back at Lado and was glad to hear from the Treasury man that he had the
permit for me all in order. He pointed out to me that the permit stated
that the hunting of elephants was not to begin until the middle of May.
It was then March, and here was I with a large safari and everything
ready to begin. I was wondering what to do about it when whom should I
see but my friend the Treasurer. I pointed out my difficulty, which he
quite saw. He said it was unfortunate, very, shaking his head and looking
thoughtfully away. The true significance of this pretty gesture was lost
on me at first, and he had to put it pretty broadly to me that, if he
were squared, it would be possible to begin right away. I did not do so,
and thereby made a bitter enemy. One of the considerations dissuading me
from oiling this gentleman’s palm was that it seemed to me that, if I
squared one, I should have to square all, a somewhat too costly business.
Passing over to the English side of the Nile, I occupied myself as well
as I could obtaining my two elephants allowed on my Uganda licence from
the sporting herd of cow elephant which then haunted the Gondokoro
region. This cow herd was even then notorious for chasing travellers
on the Nimule-Gondokoro road, and had killed several natives and a
gun-bearer of the D.C. who was trying to scare them from some native
gardens. I fell in with them only a few miles from the post and managed
to kill two passable herd bulls. One of these, shot in the brain, fell
upon a large calf, pinning it to the ground in such a fashion that
neither could the calf release itself nor could I and my boy help it
do so. Nothing could be done without more help, so I sent the boy off
to the camp for all hands. Meanwhile I waited under some trees 100
yds. from the dead bull and living calf. The latter was crying in a
distressing way, and suddenly the cow herd came rushing along back to
it. They surrounded it and crowded all about it while some of them
made short rushes here and there, trunks and ears tossing about, with
plenty of angry trumpeting. Now, I thought, we shall see a proof of the
wonderful intelligence of the elephant. If elephants really do help off
their wounded comrades, as is so often and so affectingly described by
hunters, surely they will release a trapped youngster. All they have to
do is to give a lift with their powerful trunks and the trick is done.
Nothing of the sort happened. After a couple of hours of commotion and
stamping about all round the spot my boys arrived, and it was time to
drive off the herd. I found this was not so easy as it looked. First I
shouted at them, man-fashion. Several short angry rushes in our direction
was the answer. The boys did not like it, and I certainly did not want
to do any cow shooting, so I tried the dodge of trying to imitate hyenas
or lions. Whenever I had tried these curious sounds on elephant before
it had invariably made them at first uneasy and then anxious to go
away. But here was tougher material. They drew more closely round the
fallen bulls and more tossing fronts were presented. As for any moving
off there was no sign of it. I redoubled my efforts; I screeched and
boomed myself hoarse, and I am certain that any other herd of elephants
would have rushed shrieking from the spot. But nothing would move the
Gondokoro herd. Even when I fired repeatedly over their heads nothing
much happened, but when I pasted the dusty ground about their trunks
with bullets they began to move quite slowly and with much stopping
and running back. It was a gallant herd of ladies; very different its
behaviour from that of a bull herd in a similar situation.
When the ground was clear we seized the head of the dead bull and with a
combined heave raised it sufficiently to release the calf, but it was too
late, he was dead.
Having entered my rifles at Lado and cleared them through the Douane,
it was not necessary again to visit a Belgian post. So when the hunting
season opened, I already had a herd of bull elephant located. Naturally,
I lost no time when the date arrived. The date, that is, according to
my calculations. This matter is of some importance, as I believe I was
afterwards accused of being too soon. I may have begun a day or even
two days before the date, but to the best of my knowledge it was the
opening date when I found a nice little herd of bulls, several of which
I killed with the brain shot. I was using at that time a very light and
sweet-working Mann-Sch. carbine, ·256 bore and weighing only 5¼ lb. With
this tiny and beautiful little weapon I had extraordinary luck, and I
should have continued to use it in preference to my other rifles had not
its Austrian ammunition developed the serious fault of splitting at the
neck. After that discovery I reverted to my well-tried and always trusty
7 mm. Mauser.
My luck was right in on that safari. The time of year was just right. All
the elephant for 100 miles inland were crowded into the swamps lining the
Nile banks. Hunting was difficult only on account of the high grass. To
surmount this one required either a dead elephant or a tripod to stand
on. From such an eminence others could generally be shot. And the best of
it was the huge herds were making so much noise themselves that only a
few of them could hear the report of the small-bore. None of the elephant
could be driven out of the swamps. Whenever they came to the edge and saw
the burnt-up country before them, they wheeled about and re-entered the
swamp with such determination that nothing I could do would shake it.
Later on when the rains came and the green stuff sprang up everywhere—in
a night, as it were—scarcely an elephant could be found in the swamps.
[Illustration: ELEPHANT IN THE UPPER NILE SWAMP.]
[Illustration: IN THE LADO ENCLAVE: WHITE RHINO, LION AND ELEPHANT.]