Now, this man with the bright red beard had been a soldier elsewhere
before he became a policeman in the middle of Africa. His old training
had not encouraged questions, so he never asked any now. When,
therefore, the Commandant of Police glanced up from the map, the
Sergeant saluted, turned about, and left the office.
He wasted no time. He took Corporal Merton, Privates Hay and Hare, the
small waggon, ninety days' rations, a span of fourteen black oxen, the
Zulu Jacob to drive, and the Kaffir boy "Nine-thirty" to lead.
Just before sundown he pulled out of camp. It is hardly necessary,
perhaps, to say that the leader of a waggon is the native who walks in
front of the oxen, but it is necessary to explain that a leader of oxen
in Africa answers to any name flung at him. This particular one was
called "Nine-thirty" because, without any apparent effort, he stood and
walked with his feet splayed at what should have been an impossible
angle to his legs. If his right big toe pointed east, his left one
pointed west, whilst he himself faced north or south, as the case might
be.
For seven days the party travelled in a northeasterly direction,
Sergeant Johnson spending most of the time on his back on the waggon,
Corporal Merton tramping immediately behind, whilst Privates Hay and
Hare followed at any distance ranging between a hundred yards and half a
mile.
The party was not a cheery one; it might have travelled for yet another
day, or even more, had not the Sergeant dropped his looking glass off
the tail end of the waggon. He was devoted to his big red beard. While
lying on the waggon he spent his time fondling and trimming this beard,
smearing vaseline on it and admiring it in his little lead-framed
looking glass.
When, therefore, he dropped his glass, he said: "Damn," and then, more
loudly, "This is Likonga; outspan, Jacob!"
The driver shouted "Ah, now!" to the oxen, and the outfit came to a
halt.
As a camping place, the spot so casually chosen was not a bad one. There
was wood and there was water, good grazing for the cattle, and obviously
some game about. Moreover, there were some granite boulders on the left,
set round in the form of a rude circle. Under the Sergeant's direction
all were soon roughly housed. The cattle had been made secure at night
by a skilful reinforcement of the circle of boulders, here a thorn bush
and there a few poles. Patrol tents, protected by a straggling fence,
satisfied the Sergeant and his men. Jacob spent the day in the lee of
his waggon and the night under it. "Nine-thirty" slept on the other side
of the cattle kraal, under the propped-up roof of an abandoned native
hut; during the day he herded the cattle. The making of this very
primitive out-station occupied less than a couple of days, and then the
question, "What the devil shall we do now?" fell upon the party like a
blight.
But, as is so often the case, the devil decided.
All had turned in for the night. The Sergeant had taken a last look at
his beard. Corporal Merton had read something of Kipling's. Private Hay,
after a long-winded argument with Private Hare, in which neither seemed
to gain advantage, had told his adversary to go to hell. Private Hare
had found satisfaction in saying, "Ditto, brother." Jacob had retired
under his waggon, and, like most natives, fell asleep immediately, with
his head well covered by his blanket.
The leader with the silly name, alone of all the party, remained awake
in his solitude on the other side of the cattle kraal. His evening meal
of maize porridge was bubbling in his small cooking pot, perched on a
handful of embers. He was playing a minute native "piano," a trumpery,
tinkling thing, made of half a gourd, a strip of hard wood, with a few
tongues of metal affixed to it.
The tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink; tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink, sounded very
plaintive and lonely in Africa's wide expanse. The boy was singing,
too--if his wail could be called singing.
The crocodile,
Floating near the bank,
Sleeps in the river.
Tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink.
The fish,
Floating on the water,
Sleeps in the river.
Tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink.
The hippopotamus,
Floating in mid-stream,
Sleeps in the river.
Tinkle, tinkle,...
The music stopped. Africa was deadly still, save for the croaking of a
frog.
"Nine-thirty" sat motionless, looking straight before him, out beyond
his little fire. Immediately opposite stood a large, black-maned lion.
The pair faced each other, a yard or so apart. The only movement was the
lion's tail, which switched from side to side. The huge beast looked
steadily at "Nine-thirty," who, full of fear, stared back at the lion.
Where life and death are concerned, things happen very suddenly. The
lion took one step forward and seized "Nine-thirty" by the knee. The boy
reached for his assegai and plunged it into the lion's ribs.
The Sergeant heard the cry and a roar of pain in his sleep, and woke up
to fumble with his beard. Corporal Merton, from an interrupted dream,
cried out: "Halt! Who goes there?" Private Hay, if awake, said nothing,
whilst his companion in arms muttered: "What's up?" Jacob answered from
under his blanket: "It's a lion, master, and he has killed my leader."
At any rate, it was certain something serious had happened. A lion,
uncomfortably close, was making such a din that the leaves of the trees
near by seemed to flutter, and "Nine-thirty" was moaning on the other
side of the cattle kraal.
"Stand to arms!" commanded the Sergeant.
All tumbled out of their blankets, rifle in hand, shirttails flapping in
the night wind. They were not cowards, neither were they fools. The four
listened to the sound of a lion growling and retreating as he growled.
The moaning came from one place, so it was evident that Nine-thirty was
for the moment safe. Then, hastily lighting a lantern, the policemen
picked their way round the cattle kraal to Nine-thirty's little fire.
The Sergeant knew something of first aid. He lifted the mauled native
carefully and carried him back to the waggon. The boy's knee was in a
bad state--the joint was crushed. A "tot" of brandy, a thorough wash of
the wound, a bandage, a blanket or two, and a bed of grass near the camp
fire made Nine-thirty as comfortable as possible. After making up the
fire, all turned in again.
At daylight the Sergeant mustered his men, and thus addressed them:
"We will now go and blot out this accursed lion. Load, and remember no
one fires until I give the word. Put on your boots, don't bother about
your bags."
The four lined up.
"March!"
They hadn't far to go--barely a couple of hundred yards. The lion raised
his head and growled. Nine-thirty's assegai, broken off short, still
protruded from the beast's ribs.
"Fire!" commanded the Sergeant. Four shots rang out as one, and the
lion's head sank upon his paws. The men reloaded, and approached with
caution, but the marauder was dead.
The Sergeant instructed Jacob to skin the beast, and the four returned
to camp for breakfast and to think out the problem which had arisen out
of the killing of this lion.
All things being equal in sport, and rank apart, and as man to man, to
whom belonged the skin? Someone had missed, because there were only
three holes in the skin. Someone had made a rotten bad shot, because
there was a bullet hole in the lion's rump. Someone had killed the beast
outright, because a bullet had passed through the lion's brain. Someone
had done for him, because another shot had taken him behind the
shoulder.
All claimed the head shot.
Well, Jacob was out of it anyway. So, too, was poor Nine-thirty. Neither
had fired a shot.
When I arrived I found Nine-thirty well on the way to recovery, but the
policemen still "man to man." A deputation presented me with the skull
and asked me to decide about the skin. I declared Nine-thirty the owner
by all the rules of hunting; he had drawn first blood, and had stopped
the lion.
I suggested, however, that as Nine-thirty did not want the skin, the
four who fired at the lion should have a five shilling sweepstake for
it, Nine-thirty to have the pound and the winner the skin.
Sergeant Johnson drew the prize.
But Jacob, being a Zulu, collected the lion's fat, melted it into tins,
bottles, and small gourds, and sold it for many pounds to his friends
when he went home a year later. All Zulus know that lion's fat smeared
on the head, face, or beard makes a man brave in battle.