Fernie, who was making a pile of the hartebeest meat, turned with an
angry jerk towards the speaker. Something in Black's attitude brought
him sharply to his senses and saved him from adding fresh insult to
those already thrown at his friend.
Instead, he said: "I'm sorry, Black old man. I'm a beast and we both
know it. I take back all I said; please forget it. And I must give that
driver fellow a tot of whisky; I hit him, which was a rotten thing to
do, because he can't hit me back, and I, not he, was wrong."
It certainly was a rotten thing to do. Fernie was a big-boned, powerful
man, with a fist like a leg of mutton in size. He hardly knew his
strength, but many a troublesome seaman could have testified to it in
the old liner days.
However, the tot of neat whisky put matters more or less right with the
boy.
Black pressed Fernie to have a good square meal, but he wouldn't. He
drank half a glass of raw whisky, followed by about a gallon of water.
Then he put down his blankets and turned in, his head towards the pile
of meat and his feet to the fire. Completely exhausted, he fell asleep
immediately.
It had become a habit with Fernie to place his loaded shot-gun by his
side when he went to sleep, and he invariably had a large spanner handy.
He did not forget to make these preparations now, tired though he was.
He made them mechanically.
Black, who remained by the fire, put on his spectacles and wrote up his
diary. Then he too put down his blankets, close to where Fernie lay.
He didn't go to sleep at once. In spite of his apology, Fernie's words
had left a sting. This had been his worst outbreak so far. He had never
used the contemptuous epithet "ex-ink-slinger" before. Because of its
truth it hurt.
So Black lay on his back watching the sparks rise from the fire at his
feet. He was indeed seeing the world, but he began to doubt whether he
had chosen exactly the best parts of it or the most pleasant way of
seeing them.
No unkind thought of Fernie ever entered his mind. I think I can safely
say this, for his very full diary contains no hint of such. On the
contrary, a strong thread of deep admiration and affection for his
friend can be traced without a break through every page of that strange
book.
Presently there was a slight movement behind the pile of meat. Black
turned slowly over on his side and looked. To his great alarm he saw a
large lion smelling the meat. He put out his hand and touched Fernie,
who woke at once, sat up, and looked. However uncertain the sailor's
temper might be, his nerve was still good. He snatched up his gun. As he
did so, the lion made a short backward jump and glared at the men,
growling. Fernie put the gun to his shoulder and pressed the trigger.
There was no report! He had forgotten the broken spring. Why he did not
fire the left barrel remains a mystery. Instead, he gripped the gun
about the trigger guard with his left hand, pressed the stock firmly to
his shoulder, and aimed a sharp blow at the hammer with his spanner. He
missed the hammer, but hit his thumb.
"Gentle, jumping Johnson!" he hissed through his clenched teeth. "The
devil take the blighted thing and chew it!"
With that he flung the spanner at the beast, and disregarding the blood
spurting from his crushed thumb, fired the left barrel after the lion,
which had bounded away into the darkness.
It was many days before that thumb healed.
I don't suppose that at the beginning of their partnership Fernie knew
much or any more about firearms than Black did. It is probable that both
were equally ignorant. This does not appear from the diary, but then
allowance must be made for Black's deep admiration of Fernie and all he
did.
Of course, Fernie had travelled much and, thanks to his training at sea,
took more quickly to strange conditions and new things than Black. By
dint of perseverance and the expenditure of much ammunition, he managed
to keep the camp supplied with meat, but in those days game was thick
upon the ground.
It is probable that if the job of keeping the larder full had been
handed over to the driver of the donkey waggon, all would have fared
better.
It is on record that under Fernie's tuition Black once tried his hand at
shooting at a target. I say once advisedly, for he tried but once.
The rifle he used was, of course, Fernie's old Martini. The target was
the bleached skull of an ox that they found by the roadside.
After showing his pupil how to hold the rifle, how to aim, and the use
of sights, Fernie gave Black a handful of cartridges and walked off to
set up the target.
Black was bubbling over with suppressed excitement. His heart beat
rapidly. His mouth felt unaccountably dry. He almost made up his mind to
borrow the rifle that very afternoon and go out and look for a buck. He
pictured himself soon taking turn and turn about with Fernie in keeping
the pot going.
With an effort he ceased building castles, pulled himself together, and
mentally repeated Fernie's instruction on the rifle. He determined to
acquit himself creditably.
Fernie had meanwhile set up the target about fifty yards away, and had
moved to what he considered a safe distance. He now shouted to Black to
have a shot, adding: "Don't be afraid of the darned thing, it won't hurt
you. Besides, it doesn't matter if you do miss the first shot or two."
Black clenched his teeth, put the rifle to his shoulder, and aimed at
the skull.
The rifle wobbled.
He was most anxious to make a good beginning.
The rifle went on wobbling.
He held his breath.
The rifle wobbled more.
He held his breath until his lungs nearly burst. Then, I'm afraid, he
shut his eyes and pulled the trigger in desperation.
Goodness knows where the bullet went to. Fernie declared that it passed
just over his head.
But Black? He threw the rifle on the ground and rubbed his collar-bone
and chin. His spectacles fell off. From where Fernie stood it looked as
if he might be swearing.
"What's the matter? Have another shot," shouted Fernie, as he walked
towards his friend.
"Nothing much the matter, but I don't want another shot. It hurts too
much, and you said it wouldn't."
"Hurt? Nonsense! Slip in another cartridge."
"I won't."
Fernie picked up the rifle and began to wipe off the dust with his hand.
"Hulloa! What on earth have you done to the thing?"
"Done to it?"
"Why yes; this bulge in the barrel."
"Did I do that?"
"Well, it wasn't like that before."
"Wasn't it?"
"Why no. And where's my plug?"
"Your what?"
"The plug of wood I had in the barrel. Good Heavens! You don't mean to
say that you fired the thing off with the plug in it?"
"I don't know anything about plugs. You gave me the rifle to fire and I
fired it. My neck hurts, and I'm going back to the waggon."
There must have been good metal in that old rifle, or it would surely
have exploded. About an inch from the end of the barrel was a bulge as
large as a hen's egg.
One adventure is fully recorded in the diary.
Fernie shot a reedbuck. Rain had fallen during the afternoon, so,
following the example of the waggon boys, the white men had taken the
roof from a deserted native hut, propped it up with a pole, and had made
their beds under it.
Fernie put the reedbuck meat on the raised eaves of the hut roof to be
out of the reach of stray night marauders, such as hyenas, jackals, or
native dogs.
After his experience with the lion, he had discarded the damaged
shot-gun in favour of the more serviceable rifle as a means of
protection by night.
In due course the two men went to bed and both fell asleep.
Their awakening was as sudden as it was unusual. Something fell heavily
on Fernie's chest. Still half-asleep, he hit out instinctively. His fist
came in violent contact with hairy ribs. A beast grunted and scrambled
away.
Meanwhile Black had received a leg of the reedbuck on his head and was
pushing the clammy thing from him.
It appears that a hyena had crept up between the sleeping men, had
sprung at the meat piled on the upturned roof, had misjudged the
distance, and had fallen back in a heap upon Fernie. In its ineffectual
attempt to carry off the meat it had dislodged a piece, which fell upon
Black.
The friends re-made their beds, replenished the fire, and Black turned
in again. Fernie, determined to get a shot at the hyena, should it
return, sat up, rifle in hand, and watched for some time.
After a while he got tired of sitting up, so got back into his blankets
again.
For perhaps an hour he lay on his back, holding his rifle in his hand,
the butt resting on his chest and the barrel pointing straight up into
the sky. It was in those positions that Black remembered seeing man and
weapon just before he slipped off to sleep.
How long it was before Fernie went to sleep neither had means of
knowing, but both awoke to the sound of Fernie's rifle.
"What's up?" asked Black.
"Blest if I know quite."
"Did you see the hyena?"
"I think so, I thought I did."
"Do you think you hit him?"
"I really don't know. I think I must have been dreaming. I believe I let
off the rifle in my sleep and then dropped it. My jaw hurts, so does my
shin--damnably."
"Do you mean to say you fired the thing into the air?"
"I expect so; why?"
Black didn't wait to talk. He jumped up, pulled on his boots and bolted.
As he ran he shouted: "Look out for the bullet!"
"Come back, you silly ass!" called Fernie after him. But there was no
reply.
For a little while he could hear the shuffle of Black's unlaced boots as
he hurried away, but not for long, as there was a wind blowing in the
direction which Black had taken.
From time to time Fernie called, but there was no reply. He became
alarmed for his pal's safety, so got up and dressed. With a lantern in
his hand he wandered here and there, hullooing.
When it became light enough he called the waggon boys, and all went in
search of Black.
They hadn't very far to go. They saw him perched in a tree quite
half-a-mile away. Fernie had to climb up and bring the poor fellow down
as he was stiff with cold. He pick-a-backed him to the camp. A vigorous
rubbing, a hot blanket, and a hotter whisky and water soon restored the
patient.
He had a curious story to tell.
When he realised that Fernie had fired his rifle straight up into the
air, he concluded that the bullet would sooner or later come straight
down again. It might fall on him. Why run unnecessary risk? So he ran
away. He thought he had time to pull on his boots, but no more. He
intended to give the bullet ten minutes and then come back.
He heard Fernie call to him, but he also heard a sound which made him
run faster and still faster. It was the movement of some invisible wild
beast trotting parallel and very close to him. He stopped once. It
stopped. Scared out of his senses, he ran on, and so did It. By a stroke
of good fortune he collided in his flight with a tree; instinct made him
clamber up; he did it awkwardly.
"It" jumped up at him as he climbed. Black, on the verge of exhaustion,
continued to struggle frantically up the tree. He heard the crash of
teeth as It's jaws came together within an inch of his leg. He felt It's
hot breath on his flesh and a shiver ran down his spine.
He drew up his leg as the beast jumped again. He felt the heel of his
boot seized in the creature's jaws; felt the full weight of the thing at
his hip-joint as his leg swung with the spring of the beast. He clung to
the tree for dear life. Something gave way. He wondered how much of his
leg had gone.
Fortunately his loss was not so very serious; his boot had been wrenched
from his foot--one of his patent two-compartment boots, and with it much
skin from his toes.
The waggon boys, who examined the spoor under the tree, declared it to
be that of a hyena, probably the hyena which had tried to steal the
meat.
The boot was not recovered.
Fernie really knew very little about shooting--of dangerous game he knew
nothing. I don't suppose it would have made very much difference,
because he was a reckless fellow, quite without fear.
One afternoon he shot at a skulking beast and hit her in the stomach.
This beast was a female leopard, three-quarters grown. She charged him.
Fernie hadn't time to load again, so hit her with his fist. His heavy
blow stopped her for a moment, but no more. She sprang again, and as she
sprang she struck at him, half-scalping him, and scoring deep wounds in
his stomach and thighs.
Fernie roared like a mad thing. Dropping his rifle he grappled with her.
She fought with the weapons Nature had given her; he, like savage man
before the days of weapons. He spoke no word; the sounds he made came
from the throat, not from the tongue--the raucous cries of a wild beast
fighting for its life.
Presently Fernie tripped and fell. They rolled over and over in the
dust; he, half-blinded, searching for her throat; she, biting and
tearing at his flesh. He lay on her and pressed her to the ground; thus
he got his grip upon her throat and held on until the end.
The end?
Fernie had killed the leopard with his hands, had strangled her. But
what of the man?
A blinded, shredded thing, covered with blood and dust; his scalp
hanging like a coarse fringe from his forehead to his chin; his clothes
in tatters; gaping, welling wounds everywhere. This ruin of a strong
man stood up, gave one long, loud roar of victory, and fell insensible.
The waggon boys had heard the shot, they also heard that cry. Thinking
their master had killed an antelope, they went towards the spot from
whence they judged the cry had come. They found Fernie and the leopard
lying side by side, and thought at first that both were dead. It would
have been better so.
But Fernie wasn't dead. His hold on life was much loosened, but not yet
lost. For a day or two he lingered, and then he died. His agony was
awful. He couldn't move; blood-poisoning set in; he knew he had to die,
and hour by hour he begged his friend to shoot him.
"Shoot me, Black. For the love of Heaven shoot. My God, I cannot stand
it. Kill me, Black! Oh, do be quick, Black!"
Hour after hour Black sat near his dying friend. He did little more than
keep the flies away. He was helpless. He didn't know what to do. He had
scarcely heard of first aid, and they possessed no medicines.
One of the waggon boys searched me out and found me. I travelled day and
night, but Fernie was dead when I arrived.
After we had buried Fernie, I think Black was the most alone man in the
whole world. For him there was nothing left. He had aged much during the
few days of his friend's hopeless lingering. Whenever he looked at me
the tears welled up and trickled from under the lower rim of his
spectacles. He couldn't stop them, he no longer seemed to try.
A man crying is not a thing for a man to see. I began to avoid him. I
pleaded official duties, and hated myself for it. His obvious agony of
grief became a burden to me. His whole being seemed to plead for help,
and I didn't know how to give it; no one could give it.
Just at that time the South African War broke out. I had official notice
of it and told Black. His manner changed, changed with strange rapidity;
I couldn't understand why. It did not occur to me that this helpless
creature saw opportunity in that war; but he did, and he seized it.
Next day Black said good-bye to me. He was almost cheerful. He was not
the old Black. He seemed resolute, more a man, he moved briskly.
I never saw him again. I learnt much of what happened from his diary,
which his sister sent me; the rest from a chance acquaintance in Cape
Town.
He went south to Bulawayo; from there he travelled to Beira and shipped
to Durban. In Durban he volunteered for active service, and was, of
course, rejected by every recruiting officer.
In the end, an enterprising newspaper man engaged him. He risked
nothing, because Black asked for no pay. Black went to the front
immediately, as an accredited war correspondent. What his articles would
have been like I cannot imagine, but he didn't write any. His luck was
in. The very day he arrived at Headquarters a stray bullet hit him in
the forehead and dropped him dead.
How strange it all was! A shot, fired from no one knows where and for no
obvious reason, found its mark in the brain of a man who longed for
death; probably the only man in South Africa at that moment who did long
for death.