XVII.
AN OSTRICH FARM AT MACHAKOS.
This has to do with a lion hunt on the Kapiti Plains. On the veranda at
Nairobi I had some time previous met Clifford Hill, who had invited me
to visit him at the ostrich farm he and his cousin were running in the
mountains near Machakos. Some time later, a visit to Juja Farm gave me
the opportunity. Juja is only a day's ride from the Hills'. So an
Africander, originally from the south, Captain D., and I sent across a
few carriers with our personal effects, and ourselves rode over on
horseback.
Juja is on the Athi Plains. Between the Athi and Kapiti Plains runs a
range of low mountains around the end of which one can make his way as
around a promontory. The Hills' ostrich farm was on the highlands in the
bay on the other side of the promontory.
It was towards the close of the rainy season, and the rivers were up.
We had to swim our horses within a half-mile of Juja, and got pretty
wet. Shortly after crossing the Athi, however, five miles on, we emerged
on the dry, drained slopes from the hills. Here the grass was long, and
the ticks plentiful. Our horses' legs and chests were black with them;
and when we dismounted for lunch we ourselves were almost immediately
alive with the pests. In this very high grass the game was rather
scarce, but after we had climbed by insensible grades to the shorter
growth we began to see many hartebeeste, zebra, and gazelles, and a few
of the wildebeeste, or brindled gnus. Travel over these great plains and
through these leisurely low hills is a good deal like coastwise
sailing--the same apparently unattainable landmarks which, nevertheless,
are at last passed and left astern by the same sure but insensible
progress. Thus we drew up on apparently continuous hills, found wide
gaps between them, crossed them, and turned to the left along the other
side of the promontory. About five o'clock we came to the Hills'.
The ostrich farm is situated on the very top of a conical rise that
sticks up like an island close inshore to the semicircle of mountains in
which end the vast plains of Kapiti. Thus the Hills have at their backs
and sides these solid ramparts and face westward the immensities of
space. For Kapiti goes on over the edge of the world to unknown,
unguessed regions, rolling and troubled like a sea. And from that
unknown, on very still days, the snowy peak of Kilimanjaro peers out,
sketched as faintly against the sky as a soap bubble wafted upward and
about to disappear. Here and there on the plains kopjes stand like
islands, their stone tops looking as though thrust through the smooth
prairie surface from beneath. To them meandered long, narrow ravines
full of low brush, like thin, wavering streaks of gray. On these
kopjes--each of which had its name--and in these ravines we were to hunt
lions.
We began the ascent of the cone on which dwelt our hosts. It was one of
those hills that seem in no part steep, and yet which finally succeed in
raising one to a considerable height. We passed two ostrich herds in
charge of savages, rode through a scattered native village, and so came
to the farm itself, situated on the very summit.
The house consisted of three large circular huts, thatched neatly with
papyrus stalks, and with conical roofs. These were arranged as a
triangle, just touching each other; and the space between had been
roofed over to form a veranda. We were ushered into one of these
circular rooms. It was spacious and contained two beds, two chairs, a
dresser, and a table. Its earth floor was completely covered by the
skins of animals. In the corresponding room, opposite, slept our hosts;
while the third was the living and dining room. A long table, raw-hide
bottomed chairs, a large sideboard, bookcases, a long easy settee with
pillows, gun racks, photographs in and out of frames, a table with
writing materials, and books and magazines everywhere--not to speak of
again the skins of many animals completely covering the floor. Out
behind, in small, separate buildings, laboured the cook, and dwelt the
stores, the bath-tub, and other such necessary affairs.
As soon as we had consumed the usual grateful lime juice and sparklets,
we followed our hosts into the open air to look around.
On this high, airy hill top the Hills some day are going to build them a
real house. In anticipation they have laid out grounds and have planted
many things. In examining these my California training stood by me. Out
there, as here, one so often examines his own and his neighbours'
gardens, not for what they are but for what they shall become. His
imagination can exalt this tiny seedling to the impressiveness of
spreading noontime shade; can magnify yonder apparent duplicate to the
full symmetry of a shrub; can ruthlessly diminish the present importance
of certain grand and lofty growths to its true status of flower or
animal. So from a dead uniformity of size he casts forward in the years
to a pleasing variation of shade, of jungle, of open glade, of flowered
vista; and he goes away full of expert admiration for "X.'s bully
garden." With this solid training beneath me I was able on this occasion
to please immensely.
From the house site we descended the slope to where the ostriches and
the cattle and the people were in the late sunlight swarming upward from
the plains pastures below. These people were, to the chief extent,
Wakamba, quite savage, but attracted here by the justness and fair
dealing of the Hills. Some of them farmed on shares with the Hills, the
white men furnishing the land and seed, and the black men the labour;
some of them laboured on wage; some few herded cattle or ostriches; some
were hunters and took the field only when, as now, serious business was
afoot. They had their complete villages, with priests, witch doctors,
and all; and they seemed both contented and fond of the two white men.
As we walked about we learned much of the ostrich business; and in the
course of our ten days' visit we came to a better realization of how
much there is to think of in what appears basically so simple a
proposition.
In the nesting time, then, the Hills went out over the open country,
sometimes for days at a time, armed with long high-power telescopes.
With these fearsome and unwieldy instruments they surveyed the country
inch by inch from the advantage of a kopje. When thus they discovered a
nest, they descended and appropriated the eggs. The latter, hatched at
home in an incubator, formed the nucleus of a flock.
Pass the raising of ostrich chicks to full size through the difficulties
of disease, wild beasts, and sheer cussedness. Of the resultant thirty
birds or so of the season's catch, but two or three will even promise
good production. These must be bred in captivity with other likely
specimens. Thus after several years the industrious ostrich farmer may
become possessed of a few really prime birds. To accumulate a proper
flock of such in a new country is a matter of a decade or so. Extra
prime birds are as well known and as much in demand for breeding as any
blood horse in a racing country. Your true ostrich enthusiast, like the
Hills, possesses trunks full of feathers not good commercially, but
intensely interesting for comparison and for the purposes of prophecy.
While I stayed with them came a rumour of a very fine plucking a distant
neighbour had just finished from a likely two-year-old. The Hills were
manifestly uneasy until one of them had ridden the long distance to
compare this newcomer's product with that of their own two-year-olds.
And I shall never forget the reluctantly admiring shake of the head with
which he acknowledged that it was indeed a "very fine feather!"
But getting the birds is by no means all of ostrich farming, as many
eager experimenters have discovered to their cost. The birds must have a
certain sort of pasture land; and their paddocks must be built on an
earth that will not soil or break the edges of the new plumes.
And then there is the constant danger of wild beasts. When a man has
spent years in gathering suitable flocks, he cannot be blamed for wild
anger when, as happened while I was in the country, lions kill sixty or
seventy birds in a night. The ostrich seems to tempt lions greatly. The
beasts will make their way through and over the most complicated
defences. Any ostrich farmer's life is a constant warfare against them.
Thus the Hills had slain sixty-eight lions in and near their farm--a
tremendous record. Still the beasts continued to come in. My hosts
showed me, with considerable pride, their arrangements finally evolved
for night protection.
The ostriches were confined in a series of heavy corrals, segregating
the birds of different ages. Around the outside of this group of
enclosures ran a wide ring corral in which were confined the numerous
cattle; and as an outer wall to this were built the huts of the Wakamba
village. Thus to penetrate to the ostriches the enterprising lion would
have to pass both the people, the cattle, and the strong thorn and log
structures that contained them.
This subject brings me to another set of acquaintances we had already
made--the dogs.
These consisted of an Airedale named Ruby; two setters called Wayward
and Girlie; a heavy black mongrel, Nero; ditto brindle, Ben; and a
smaller black and white ditto, Ranger. They were very nice friendly
doggy dogs, but they did not look like lion hunters. Nevertheless, Hill
assured us that they were of great use in the sport, and promised us
that on the following day we should see just how.
XVIII
THE FIRST LIONESS.
At an early hour we loaded our bedding, food, tents, and camp outfit on
a two-wheeled wagon drawn by four of the humpbacked native oxen, and
sent it away across the plains, with instructions to make camp on a
certain kopje. Clifford Hill and myself, accompanied by our gunbearers
and syces, then rode leisurely down the length of a shallow brushy cañon
for a mile or so. There we dismounted and sat down to await the arrival
of the others. These--including Harold Hill, Captain D., five or six
Wakamba spearmen, our own carriers, and the dogs--came along more
slowly, beating the bottoms on the off chance of game.
The sun was just warming, and the bees and insects were filling the air
with their sleepy droning sounds. The hillside opposite showed many
little outcrops of rocks so like the hills of our own Western States
that it was somewhat difficult to realize that we were in Africa. For
some reason the delay was long. Then suddenly all four of us
simultaneously saw the same thing. A quarter-mile away and on the
hillside opposite a magnificent lioness came loping easily along through
the grass. She looked very small at that distance, like a toy, and quite
unhurried. Indeed, every few moments she paused to look back in an
annoyed fashion over her shoulder in the direction of the row behind
her.
There was nothing to do but sit tight and wait. The lioness was headed
exactly to cross our front; nor, except at one point, was she at all
likely to deviate. A shallow tributary ravine ran into our own about two
hundred yards away. She might possibly sneak down the bed of this. It
seemed unlikely. The going was bad, and in addition she had no idea as
yet that she had been sighted. Indeed, the chances were that she would
come to a definite stop before making the crossing, in which case we
would get a shot.
"And if she does go down the donga," whispered Hill, "the dogs will
locate her."
Sitting still while things approach is always exciting. This is true of
ducks; but when you multiply ducks by lions it is still more true. We
all crouched very low in the grass. She leapt without hesitation into
the ravine--and did not emerge.
This was a disappointment. We concluded she must have entered the stream
bottom, and were just about to move when Memba Sasa snapped his fingers.
His sharp eyes had discovered her sneaking along, belly to the ground,
like the cat she was. The explanation of this change in her gait was
simple. Our companions had rounded the corner of the hill and were
galloping in plain view a half-mile away. The lioness had caught sight
of them.
She was gliding by, dimly visible, through thick brush seventy yards
distant. Now I could make out a tawny patch that faded while I looked;
now I could merely guess at a melting shadow.
"Stir her up," whispered Hill. "Never mind whether you hit. She'll sneak
away."
At the shot she leaped fully out into the open with a snarl. Promptly I
planted a Springfield bullet in her ribs. She answered slightly to the
hit, but did not shift position. Her head up, her tail thrashing from
side to side, her ears laid back, she stood there looking the landscape
over carefully point by point. She was searching for us, but as yet
could not locate us. It was really magnificent.
I attempted to throw in another cartridge, but because of my desire to
work the bolt quietly, in order not to attract the lioness's attention,
I did not pull it back far enough, and the cartridge jammed in the
magazine. As evidence of Memba Sasa's coolness and efficiency, it is to
be written that he became aware of this as soon as I did. He thrust
the.405 across my right side, at the same time withdrawing the
Springfield on the left. The motion was slight, but the lioness caught
it. Immediately she dropped her head and charged.
For the next few moments, naturally, I was pretty intent on lions.
Nevertheless a corner of my mind was aware of Memba Sasa methodically
picking away at the jammed rifle, and paying no attention whatever to
the beast. Also I heard Hill making picturesque remarks about his
gunbearer, who had bolted with his second gun.
The lioness charged very fast, but very straight, about in the tearing,
scrambling manner of a terrier after a thrown ball. I got in the first
shot as she came, the bullet ranging back from the shoulder, and Hill
followed it immediately with another from his.404 Jeffrey. She growled
at the bullets, and checked very slightly as they hit, but gave no other
sign. Then our second shots hit her both together. The mere shock
stopped her short, but recovering instantly, she sprang forward again.
Hill's third shot came next, and perceptibly slowed and staggered, but
did not stop her. By this time she was quite close, and my own third
shot reached her brain. She rolled over dead.
Decidedly she was a game beast, and stood more hammering than any other
lion I killed or saw killed. Before the final shot in the brain she had
taken one light bullet and five heavy ones with hardly a wince. Memba
Sasa uttered a loud grunt of satisfaction when she went down for good.
He had the Springfield reloaded and cocked, right at my elbow.
Hill's gunboy hovered uncertainly some distance in the rear. The sight
of the charging lioness had been too much for him and he had bolted. He
was not actually up a tree; but he stood very near one. He lost the gun
and acquired a swift kick.
Our friends and the men now came up. The dogs made a great row over the
dead lioness. She was measured and skinned to accompaniment of the usual
low-hummed chantings. We had with us a small boy of ten or twelve years
whose job it was to take care of the dogs and to remove ticks. In fact
he was known as the Tick Toto. As this was his first expedition afield,
his father took especial pains to smear him with fat from the lioness.
This was to make him brave. I am bound to confess the effect was not
immediate.
XIX.
THE DOGS.
I soon discovered that we were hunting lions with the assistance of the
dogs; not that the dogs were hunting lions. They had not lost any lions,
not they! My mental pictures of the snarling, magnificent king of beasts
surrounded by an equally snarling, magnificent pack vanished into thin
air.
Our system was to cover as much likely country as we could, and to let
the dogs have a good time. As I have before indicated, they were
thoroughly doggy dogs, and interested in everything--except able-bodied
lions. None of the stick-at-your-heels in their composition. They ranged
far and wide through all sorts of cover, seeking what they could find in
the way of porcupines, mongoose, hares, birds, cats, and whatever else
should interest any healthy-minded dog. If there happened to be any
lions in the path of these rangings, the dogs retired rapidly,
discreetly, and with every symptom of horrified disgust. If a dog came
sailing out of a thicket, ki-yi-ing agitatedly, and took up his
position, tail between his legs, behind his master, we knew there was
probably a lion about. Thus we hunted lions with dogs.
But in order to be fair to these most excellent canines, it should be
recorded that they recovered a certain proportion of their nerve after a
rifle had been fired. They then returned warily to the--not
attack--reconnaissance. This trait showed touching faith, and was a real
compliment to the marksmanship of their masters. Some day it will be
misplaced. A little cautious scouting on their part located the wounded
beast; whereupon, at a respectful distance, they lifted their voices. As
a large element of danger in case of a wounded lion is the uncertainty
as to his whereabouts, it will be seen that the dogs were very valuable
indeed. They seemed to know exactly how badly hit any animal might
happen to be, and to gauge their distance accordingly, until at last,
when the quarry was hammered to harmlessness, they closed in and began
to worry the nearly lifeless carcass. By this policy the dogs had a lot
of fun hunting on their own hook, preserved their lives from otherwise
inevitable extinction, and were of great assistance in saving their
masters' skins.
One member of the pack, perhaps two, were, however, rather pathetic
figures. I refer to the setters, Wayward and Girlie. Ranger, Ruby, Ben,
and Nero scampered merrily over the landscape after anything that
stirred, from field mice to serval cats. All was game to their catholic
tastes; and you may be sure, in a country like Africa, they had few dull
moments. But Wayward and Girlie had been brought up in a more exclusive
manner. Their early instincts had been supplemented by a rigorous early
training. Game to them meant birds, and birds only. Furthermore, they
had been solemnly assured by human persons in whom they had the utmost
confidence, that but one sequence of events was permissible or even
thinkable in the presence of game. The Dog at first intimation by scent
must convey the fact to the Man, must proceed cautiously to locate
exactly, must then stiffen to a point which he must hold staunchly, no
matter how distracting events might turn out, or how long an interval
might elapse. The Man must next walk up the birds; shoot at them,
perhaps kill one, then command the Dog to retrieve. The Dog must on no
account move from his tracks until such command is given. All the affair
is perfectly simple; but quite inflexible. Any variation in this
procedure fills the honest bird dog's mind with the same horror and
dismay experienced by a well-brought-up young man who discovers that he
has on shoes of the wrong colour. It isn't done, you know.
Consider, then, Wayward and Girlie in a country full of game birds. They
quarter wide to right, then cross to left, their heads high, their
feather tails waving in the most approved good form. When they find
birds they draw to their points in the best possible style; stiffen
out--and wait. It is now, according to all good ethics, up to the Man.
And the Man and his companions go right on by, paying absolutely no
attention either to the situation or one's own magnificent piece of
work! What is one to conclude? That our early training is all wrong?
that we are at one experience to turn apostate to the settled and only
correct order of things? Or that our masters are no gentlemen? That is a
pretty difficult thing, an impossible thing, to conclude of one's own
master. But it leaves one in a fearful state mentally; and one has no
idea of what to do!
Wayward was a perfect gentleman, and he played the game according to
the very best traditions. He conscientiously pointed every bird he could
get his nose on. Furthermore he was absolutely staunch, and held his
point even when the four non-bird dogs rushed in ahead of him. The
expression of puzzlement, grief, shock, and sadness in his eyes deepened
as bird after bird soared away without a shot. Girlie was more
liberal-minded. She pointed her birds, and backed Wayward at need, but
when the other dogs rushed her point, she rushed too. And when we swept
on by her, leaving her on point, instead of holding it quixotically, as
did Wayward, until the bird sneaked away, she merely waited until we
were out of sight, and then tried to catch it. Finally Captain D.
remarked that, lions or no lions, he was not going to stand it any
longer. He got out a shotgun, and all one afternoon killed grouse over
Wayward, to the latter's intense relief. His ideals had been
rehabilitated.
XX.
BONDONI.
We followed many depressions, in which might be lions, until about three
o'clock in the afternoon. Then we climbed the gently-rising long slope
that culminated, far above the plains, in the peak of a hill called
Bondoni. From a distance it was steep and well defined; but, like most
of these larger kopjes, its actual ascent, up to the last few hundred
feet, was so gradual that we hardly knew we were climbing. At the summit
we found our men and the bullock cart. There also stood an oblong
blockhouse of stone, the walls two feet thick and ten feet high. It was
entered only by a blind angle passage, and was strong enough,
apparently, to resist small artillery. This structure was simply an
ostrich corral, and bitter experience had shown the massive construction
absolutely necessary as adequate protection, in this exposed and
solitary spot, against the lions.
We had some tea and bread and butter, and then Clifford Hill and I set
out afoot after meat. Only occasionally do these hard-working settlers
get a chance for hunting on the plains so near them; and now they had
promised their native retainers that they would send back a treat of
game. To carry this promised luxury, a number of the villagers had
accompanied the bullock wagon. As we were to move on next day, it became
very desirable to get the meat promptly while still near home.
We slipped over to the other side, and by good fortune caught sight of a
dozen zebras feeding in scrub half-way down the hill. They were out of
their proper environment up there, but we were glad of it. Down on our
tummies, then, we dropped, and crawled slowly forward through the high,
sweet grasses. We were in the late afternoon shadow of the hill, and we
enjoyed the mild skill of the stalk. Taking advantage of every cover,
slipping over into little ravines, lying very flat when one of the
beasts raised his head, we edged nearer and nearer. We were already well
within range, but it amused us to play the game. Finally, at one hundred
yards, we came to a halt. The zebra showed very handsome at that range,
for even their smaller leg stripes were all plainly visible. Of course
at that distance there could be small chance of missing, and we owned
one each. The Wakamba, who had been watching eagerly, swarmed down,
shouting.
We dined just at sunset under a small tree at the very top of the peak.
Long bars of light shot through the western clouds; the plain turned
from solid earth to a mysterious sea of shifting twilights; the buttes
stood up, wrapped in veils of soft desert colours; Kilimanjaro hung
suspended like a rose-coloured bubble above the abyss beyond the world.
XXI.
RIDING THE PLAINS.
From the mere point of view of lions, lion A hunting was very slow work
indeed. It meant riding the whole of long days, from dawn until dark,
investigating miles of country that looked all alike and in which we
seemed to get nowhere. One by one the long billows of plain fell behind,
until our camp hill had turned blue behind us, and we seemed to be out
in illimitable space, with no possibility, in an ordinary lifetime, of
ever getting in touch with anything again. What from above had looked as
level as a floor now turned into a tremendously wide and placid ground
swell. As a consequence we were always going imperceptibly up and up and
up to a long-delayed sky-line, or tipping as gently down the other side
of the wave. From crest to crest of these long billows measured two or
three miles. The vertical distance in elevation from trough to top was
perhaps not over fifty to one hundred feet.
Slowly we rode along the shallow grass and brush ravines in the troughs
of the low billows, while the dogs worked eagerly in and out of cover,
and our handful of savages cast stones and shouted. Occasionally we
divided forces, and beat the length of a hill, two of us lying in wait
at one end for the possible lion, the rest sweeping the sides and
summits. Many animals came bounding along, but no lions. Then Harold
Hill, unlimbering a huge, many-jointed telescope, would lie flat on his
back, and sight the fearsome instrument over his crossed feet, in a
general bird's-eye view of the plains for miles around. While he was at
it we were privileged to look about us, less under the burden of
responsibility. We could make out the game as little, light-coloured
dots and speckles, thousands upon thousands of them, thicker than cattle
ever grazed on the open range, and as far as the eye could make them
out, and then a glance through our glasses picked them up again for mile
after mile. Even the six-power could go no farther. The imagination was
left the vision of more leagues of wild animals even to the half-guessed
azure mountains--and beyond. I had seen abundant game elsewhere in
Africa, but nothing like the multitudes inhabiting the Kapiti Plains at
that time of year. In other seasons this locality is comparatively
deserted.
The glass revealing nothing in our line, we rode again to the lower
levels, and again took up our slow, painstaking search.
But although three days went by in this manner without our getting a
glimpse of lions, they were far from being days lost. Minor adventure
filled our hours. What elsewhere would be of major interest and strange
and interesting experience met us at every turn. The game, while
abundant, was very shy. This had nothing to do with distrust of hunters,
but merely with the fact that it was the season of green grass. We liked
to come upon animals unexpectedly, to see them buck-jump and cavort.
Otherwise we rode in a moving space cleared of animals, the beasts
unobtrusively giving way before us, and as unobtrusively closing in
behind. The sun flashed on the spears of savages travelling single file
across the distance. Often we stopped short to gaze upon a wild and
tumbled horizon of storm that Gustave Doré might have drawn.
The dogs were always joyously routing out some beast, desirable from
their point of view, and chasing it hopelessly about, to our great
amusement. Once they ran into a giant porcupine-about the size a setter
would be, with shorter legs-which did not understand running away. They
came upon it in a dense thicket, and the ensuing row was unholy. They
managed to kill the porcupine among them, after which we plucked barbed
quills from some very grieved dogs. The quills were large enough to make
excellent penholders. The dogs also swore by all canine gods that they
wouldn't do a thing to a hyena, if only they could get hold of one. They
never got hold of one, for the hyena is a coward. His skull and teeth,
however, are as big and powerful as those of a lioness; so I do not know
which was luckier in his avoidance of trouble--he or the dogs.
Nor from the shooting standpoint did we lack for sport. We had to shoot
for our men, and we occasionally needed meat ourselves. It was always
interesting, when such necessities arose, to stalk the shy buck and do
long-range rifle practice. This shooting, however, was done only after
the day's hunt was over. We had no desire to spoil our lion chances.
The long circle towards our evening camp always proved very long indeed.
We arrived at dusk to find supper ready for us. As we were old
campaigners we ate this off chop boxes as tables, and sat on the ground.
It was served by a Wakamba youth we had nicknamed Herbert Spencer, on
account of his gigantic intellect. Herbert meant well, but about all he
succeeded in accomplishing was a pathetically wrinkled brow of care and
scared eyes. He had never been harshly treated by any of us, but he
acted as though always ready to bolt. If there were twenty easy right
methods of doing a thing and one difficult wrong method, Herbert would
get the latter every time. No amount of experience could teach him the
logic of our simplest ways. One evening he brought a tumbler of mixed
water and condensed milk. Harold Hill glanced into the receptacle.
"Stir it," he commanded briefly.
Herbert Spencer obeyed. We talked about something else. Some five or ten
minutes later one of us noticed that Herbert was still stirring, and
called attention to the fact. When the latter saw our eyes were on him
he speeded up until the spoon fairly rattled in the tumbler. Then, when
he thought our attention had relaxed again, he relaxed also his
efforts--the spoon travelled slower and slower in its dreamy circle. We
amused ourselves for some time thus. Then we became so weak from
laughter that we fell backward off our seats, and some one gasped a
command that Herbert cease.
I am afraid, after a little, that we rather enjoyed mildly tormenting
poor Herbert Spencer. He tried so hard, and looked so scared, and was so
unbelievably stupid! Almost always he had to pick his orders word by
word from a vast amount of high-flown, unnecessary English.
"O Herbert Spencer," the command would run, "if you would condescend to
bend your mighty intellect to the lowly subject of maji, and will snatch
time from your profound cerebrations to assure its being moto sans, I
would esteem it infinite condescension on your part to let pesi pesi."
And Herbert, listening to all this with a painful, strained intensity,
would catch the six-key words, and would falter forth a trembling "N'dio
bwana."
Somewhere down deep within Herbert Spencer's make up, however, was a
sense of moral duty. When we finally broke camp for good, on the great
hill of Lucania, Herbert Spencer, relieved from his job, bolted like a
shot. As far as we could see him he was running at top speed. If he had
not possessed a sense of duty, he would have done this long ago.
We camped always well up on some of the numerous hills; for, although
anxious enough to find lions in the daytime, we had no use for them at
all by night. This usually meant that the boys had to carry water some
distance. We kept a canvas bath-tub full for the benefit of the dogs,
from which they could drink at any time. This necessary privilege after
a hard day nearly drove Captain D. crazy. It happened like this:
We were riding along the slope of a hillside, when in the ravine, a half
mile away and below us, we saw something dark pop up in sight and then
down again. We shouted to some of the savage Wakamba to go and
investigate. They closed in from all sides, their long spears poised to
strike. At the last moment out darted, not an animal, but a badly
frightened old man armed with bow and arrow. He dashed out under the
upraised spears, clasped one of the men around the knees, and implored
protection. Our savages, their spears ready, glanced over their
shoulders for instruction. They would have liked nothing better than to
have spitted the poor old fellow.
We galloped down as fast as possible to the rescue. With reluctance our
spearmen drew back, releasing their prize. We picked up his scattered
bows and arrows, restored them to him, and uttered many reassurances. He
was so badly frightened that he could not stand for the trembling of his
knees. Undoubtedly he thought that war had broken out, and that he was
the first of its unconscious victims. After calming him down, we told
him what we were doing, and offered to shoot him meat if he cared to
accompany us. He accepted the offer with joy. So pleased and relieved
was he, that he skipped about like a young and nimble goat. His hunting
companion, who all this time had stood atop of a hill at a safe
distance, viewed these performances with concern. Our captive shouted
loudly for him to come join us and share in the good fortune. Not he! He
knew a trap when he saw one! Not a bit disturbed by the tales this man
would probably carry back home, our old fellow attached himself to us
for three days!
Near sundown, to make our promise good, and also to give our own men a
feast, I shot two hartebeeste near camp.
The evening was beautiful. The Machakos Range, miles distant across the
valley, was mantled with thick, soft clouds. From our elevation we could
see over them, and catch the glow of moonlight on their upper surfaces.
We were very tired, so we turned in early and settled ourselves for a
good rest.
Outside our tent the little "Injun fire" we had built for our own
comfort died down to coals. A short distance away, however, was a huge
bonfire around which all the savages were gathered. They squatted
comfortably on their heels, roasting meat. Behind each man was planted
his glittering long-bladed spear. The old man held the place of honour,
as befitted his flirtation with death that morning. Everybody was
absolutely happy--a good fire, plenty of meat, and strangers with whom
to have a grand "shauri." The clatter of tongues was a babel, for almost
every one talked at once and excitedly. Those who did not talk crooned
weird, improvised chants, in which they detailed the doings of the camp.
We fell very quickly into the half doze of too great exhaustion. It
never became more than a half doze. I suppose every one who reads this
has had at some time the experience of dropping asleep to the
accompaniment of some noise that ought soon to cease--a conversation in
the next room, singing, the barking of a dog, the playing of music, or
the like. The fact that it ought soon to cease, permits the falling
asleep. When, after an interval, the subconsciousness finds the row
still going on, inexcusable and unabated, it arouses the victim to
staring exasperation. That was our case here. Those natives should have
turned in for sleep after a reasonable amount of pow-wow. They did
nothing of the kind. On the contrary, I dragged reluctantly back to
consciousness and the realization that they had quite happily settled
down to make a night of it. I glanced across the little tent to where
Captain D. lay on his cot. He was staring straight upward, his eyes wide
open.
After a few seconds he slipped out softly and silently. Our little fire
had sunk to embers. A dozen sticks radiated from the centre of coals.
Each made a firebrand with one end cool to the grasp. Captain D. hurled
one of these at the devoted and unconscious group.
It whirled through the air and fell plunk in the other fire, scattering
sparks and coals in all directions. The second was under way before the
first had landed. It hit a native with similar results, plus astonished
and grieved language. The rest followed in rapid-magazine-fire. Every
one hit its mark fair and square. The air was full of sparks exploding
in all directions. The brush was full of Wakamba, their blankets
flapping in the breeze of their going. The convention was adjourned.
There fell the sucking vacuum of a great silence. Captain D., breathing
righteous wrath, flopped heavily and determinedly down on his cot. I
caught a faint snicker from the tent next door.
Captain D. sighed deeply, turned over, and prepared to sleep. Then one
of the dogs uprose--I think it was Ben--stretched himself, yawned,
approached deliberately, and began to drink from the canvas bath-tub
just outside. He drank--lap, lap, lap, lap--for a very long time. It
seemed incredible that any mere dog--or canvas bath-tub--could hold so
much water. The steady repetition of this sound long after it should
logically have ceased was worse than the shenzi gathering around the
fire. Each lap should have been the last, but it was not. The shenzi
convention had been abated with firebrands, but the dog was strictly
within his rights. The poor pups had had a long day with little water,
and they could hardly be blamed for feeling a bit feverish now. At last
Ben ceased. Next morning Captain D. claimed vehemently that he had drunk
two hours forty-nine minutes and ten seconds. With a contented sigh Ben
lay down. Then Ruby got up, shook herself, and yawned. A bright idea
struck her. She too went over and had a drink. After that I, personally,
went to sleep. But in the morning I found Captain D. staring-eyed and
strung nearly to madness, trying feverishly to calculate how seven dogs
drinking on an average of three hours apiece could have finished by
morning. When Harold Hill innocently asked if he had slept well, the
captain threw the remaining but now extinct firebrand at him.
One of the safari boys, a big Baganda, had twisted his foot a little,
and it had swelled up considerably. In the morning he came to have it
attended to. The obvious treatment was very hot water and rest; but it
would never do to tell him so. The recommendation of so simple a remedy
would lose me his faith. So I gave him a little dab of tick ointment
wrapped in a leaf.
"This," said I, "is most wonderful medicine; but it is also most
dangerous. If you were to rub it on your foot or your hand or any part
of you, that part would drop off. But if you wash the part in very hot
water continuously for a half hour, and then put on the medicine, it is
good, and will cure you very soon." I am sure I do not know what they
put in tick ointment; nor, for the purpose, did it greatly matter. That
night, also, Herbert Spencer reached the climax of his absurdities. The
chops he had cooked did not quite suffice for our hunger, so we
instructed him to give us some of the leg. By this we meant steak, of
course. Herbert Spencer was gone so long a time that finally we went to
see what possibly could be the matter. We found him trying desperately
to cook the whole leg in a frying-pan!
XXII.
THE SECOND LIONESS.
Now our luck changed most abruptly. We had been riding since early
morning over the wide plains. By and by we came to a wide, shallow,
flood-water course carpeted with lava boulders and scant, scattered
brush. Two of us took one side of it, and two the other. At this we were
just within hailing distance. The boys wandered down the middle.
Game was here very abundant, and in this broken country proved quite
approachable. I saw one Grant's gazelle head, in especial, that greatly
tempted me; but we were hunting lions, and other shooting was out of
place. Also the prospects for lions had brightened, for we were
continually seeing hyenas in packs of from three to six. They lay among
the stones, but galloped away at our approach. The game paid not the
slightest attention to these huge, skulking brutes. One passed within
twenty feet of a hartebeeste; the latter hardly glanced at him. As the
hyena is lazy as well as cowardly, and almost never does his killing, we
inferred a good meat supply to gather so many of them in one place. From
a tributary ravine we flushed nineteen!
Harold Hill was riding with me on the right bank. His quick eye caught a
glimpse of something beyond our companions on the left side. A glance
through the glasses showed me that it was a lion, just disappearing over
the hill. At once we turned our horses to cross. It was a heavy job. We
were naturally in a tremendous hurry; and the footing among those
boulders and rounded rocks was so vile that a very slow trot was the
best we could accomplish. And that was only by standing in our stirrups,
and holding up our horses' heads by main strength. We reached the
sky-line in time to see a herd of game stampeding away from a depression
a half-mile away. We fixed our eyes on that point, and a moment later
saw the lion or lioness, as it turned out, leap a gully and come out the
other side.
The footing down this slope, too, was appalling, consisting mainly of
chunks of lava interspersed with smooth, rounded stones and sparse tufts
of grass. In spite of the stones we managed a sort of stumbling gallop.
Why we did not all go down in a heap I do not know. At any rate we had
no chance to watch our quarry, for we were forced to keep our eyes
strictly to our way. When finally we emerged from that tumble of rocks,
she had disappeared.
Either she had galloped out over the plains, or she had doubled back to
take cover in the ravine. In the latter case she would stand. Our first
job, therefore, was to determine whether she had escaped over the open
country. To this end we galloped our horses madly in four different
directions, pushing them to the utmost, swooping here and there in wide
circles. That was an exhilarating ten minutes until we had surmounted
every billow of the plain, spied in all directions, and assured
ourselves beyond doubt that she had not run off. The horses fairly flew,
spurning the hard sod, leaping the rock dikes, skipping nimbly around
the pig holes, turning like cow-ponies under pressure of knee and rein.
Finally we drew up, converged, and together jogged our sweating horses
back to the ravine. There we learned from the boys that nothing more had
been seen of our quarry.
We dismounted, handed our mounts to their syces, and prepared to make
afoot a clean sweep of the wide, shallow ravine. Here was where the dogs
came in handy. We left a rearguard of two men, and slowly began our
beat.
The ravine could hardly be called a ravine; rather a shallow depression
with banks not over a foot high, and with a varying width of from two to
two hundred feet. The grass grew very patchy, and not very high; in
fact, it seemed hardly tall enough to conceal anything as large as a
lioness. We men walked along the edge of this depression, while the dogs
ranged back and forth in its bottom.
We had gone thus a quarter-mile when one of the rearguard came running
up.
"Bwana," said he, "we have seen the lioness. She is lying in a patch of
grass. After you had passed, we saw her raise her head."
It seemed impossible that she should have escaped both our eyes and the
dogs' noses, but we returned. The man pointed out a thin growth of
dried, yellow grass ten feet in diameter. Then it seemed even more
incredible. Apparently we could look right through every foot of it. The
man persisted, so we advanced in battle array. At thirty yards Captain
D. saw the black tips of her ears. We all looked hard, and at last made
her out, lying very flat, her head between her paws. Even then she was
shadowy and unreal, and, as I have said, the cover did not look thick
enough to conceal a good-sized dog.
As though she realized she had been sighted, she at this moment leapt to
her feet. Instantly I put a.405 bullet into her shoulder. Any other lion
I ever saw or heard of would in such circumstances and at such a
distance immediately have charged home. She turned tail and ran away. I
missed her as she ran, then knocked her down with a third shot. She got
up again, but was immediately hit by Captain D.'s.350 Magnum and brought
to a halt. The dogs, seeing her turn tail and hearing our shots, had
scrambled madly after her. We dared not shoot again for fear of hitting
one of them, so we dashed rapidly into the grass and out the other side.
Before we could get to her, she had sent Ruby flying through the air,
and had then fallen over dead. Ruby got off lucky with only a deep gash
the length of her leg.
This was the only instance I experienced of a wounded lion showing the
white feather. She was, however, only about three-quarters grown, and
was suffering from diarrhoea.
XXIII.
THE BIG LION.
The boys skinned her while we ate lunch. Then we started several of them
back towards camp with the trophy, and ourselves cut across country to a
small river known as the Stony Athi. There we dismounted from our
horses, and sent them and the boys atop the ridge above the stream,
while we ourselves explored afoot the hillside along the river.
This was a totally different sort of country from that to which we had
been accustomed. Imagine a very bouldery hillside planted thickly with
knee-high brambles and more sparsely with higher bushes. They were not
really brambles, of course, but their tripping, tangling, spiky
qualities were the same. We had to force our way through these, or step
from boulder to boulder. Only very rarely did we get a little rubbly
clear space to walk in, and then for only ten or twenty feet. We tried
in spaced intervals to cover the whole hillside. It was very hard work.
The boys, with the horses, kept pace with us on the sky-line atop, and
two or three hundred yards away.
We had proceeded in this fashion for about a mile, when suddenly, and
most unexpectedly, the biggest lion I ever saw leapt straight up from a
bush twenty-five yards in front of me, and with a tremendous roar
vanished behind another bush. I had just time to throw up the.405
shotgun-fashion and let drive a snapshot. Clifford Hill, who was ten
yards to my right, saw the fur fly, and we all heard the snarl as the
bullet hit. Naturally we expected an instant charge, but, as things
turned out, it was evident the lion had not seen us at all. He had leapt
at the sight of our men and horses on the sky-line, and when the bullet
hit he must have ascribed it to them. At any rate, he began to circle
through the tangled vines in their direction.
From their elevation they could follow his movements. At once they set
up howls of terror and appeals for help. Some began frantically to run
back and forth. None of them tried to run away; there was nowhere to go!
The only thing that saved them was the thick and spiky character of the
cover. The lion, instead of charging straight and fast, was picking an
easy way.
We tore directly up hill as fast as we were able, leaping from rock to
rock, and thrusting recklessly through the tangle. About half-way up I
jumped to the top of a high, conical rock, and thence by good luck
caught sight of the lion's great yellow head advancing steadily about
eighty yards away. I took as good a sight as I could and pulled trigger.
The recoil knocked me clear off the boulder, but as I fell I saw his
tail go up and knew that I had hit. At once Clifford Hill and I jumped
up on the rock again, but the lion had moved out of sight. By this time,
however, the sound of the shots and the smell of blood had caused the
dogs to close in. They did not, of course, attempt to attack the lion,
nor even to get very near him, but their snarling and barking showed us
the beast's whereabouts. Even this much is bad judgment on their part,
as a number of them have been killed at it. The thicket burst into an
unholy row.
We all manoeuvred rapidly for position. Again luck was with me, for
again I saw his great head, the mane standing out all around it; and
for the second time I planted a heavy bullet square in his chest. This
stopped his advance; he lay down. His head was up and his eyes glared,
as he uttered the most reverberating and magnificent roars and growls.
The dogs leapt and barked around him. We came quite close, and I planted
my fourth bullet in his shoulder. Even this was not enough. It took a
fifth in the same place to finish him, and he died at last biting great
chunks of earth.
The howls from the hill top ceased. All gathered to marvel at the lion's
immense size. He measured three feet nine inches at the shoulder, and
nine feet eleven inches between stakes, or ten feet eleven inches along
contour. This is only five inches under record. We weighed him
piecemeal, after a fashion, and put him between 550 and 600 pounds.
But these are only statistics, and mean little unless a real attempt is
made to visualize them. As a matter of fact, his mere height--that of a
medium-size zebra-was little unless accented by the impression of his
tremendous power and quickness.
We skinned him, and then rode four long hours to camp. We arrived at
dark, and at once set to work preparing the trophy. A dozen of us
squatted around the skin, working by lantern light. Memba Sasa had had
nothing to eat since before dawn, but in his pride and delight he
refused to touch a mouthful until the job was finished. Several times we
urged him to stop long enough for even a bite. He steadily declined, and
whetted his knife, his eyes gleaming with delight, his lips crooning one
of his weird Monumwezi songs. At eleven o'clock the task was done. Then
I presented Memba Sasa with a tall mug of coffee and lots of sugar. He
considered this a great honour.
XXIV.
THE FIFTEEN LIONS.
Two days before Captain D. and I were to return to Juja we approached,
about eleven o'clock in the morning, a long, low, rugged range of hills
called Lucania. They were not very high, but bold with cliffs, buttes,
and broken rocky stretches. Here we were to make our final hunt.
We led our safari up to the level of a boulder flat between two deep
cañons that ran down from the hills. Here should be water, so we
gathered under a lone little tree, and set about directing the simple
disposition of our camp. Herbert Spencer brought us a cold lunch, and we
sat down to rest and refreshment before tackling the range.
Hardly had we taken the first mouthfuls, however, when Memba Sasa,
gasping for breath, came tearing up the slope from the cañon where he
had descended for a drink. "Lions!" he cried, guardedly. "I went to
drink, and I saw four lions. Two were lying under the shade, but two
others were playing like puppies, one on its back."
While he was speaking a lioness wandered out from the cañon and up the
opposite slope. She was somewhere between six and nine hundred yards
away, and looked very tiny; but the binoculars brought us up to her with
a jump. Through them she proved to be a good one. She was not at all
hurried, but paused from time to time to yawn and look about her. After
a short interval, another, also a lioness, followed in her footsteps.
She too had climbed clear when a third, probably a full-grown but still
immature lion, came out, and after him the fourth.
"You were right," we told Memba Sasa, "there are your four."
But while we watched, a fifth, again at the spaced interval, this time a
maned lion, clambered leisurely up in the wake of his family; and after
him another, and another, and yet another! We gasped, and sat down, the
better to steady our glasses with our knees. There seemed no end to
lions. They came out of that apparently inexhaustible cañon bed one at a
time and at the same regular intervals; perhaps twenty yards or so
apart. It was almost as though they were being released singly. Finally
we had _fifteen_ in sight.
It was a most magnificent spectacle, and we could enjoy it unhurried by
the feeling that we were losing opportunities. At that range it would be
silly to open fire. If we had descended to the cañon in order to follow
them out the other side, they would merely have trotted away. Our only
chance was to wait until they had disappeared from sight, and then to
attempt a wide circle in order to catch them from the flank. In the
meantime we had merely to sit still.
Therefore we stared through our glasses, and enjoyed to the full this
most unusual sight. There were four cubs about as big as setter dogs,
four full-grown but immature youngsters, four lionesses, and three male
lions. They kept their spaced, single file formation for two-thirds the
ascent of the hill--probably the nature of the ground forced them to
it--and then gradually drew together. Near the top, but still below the
summit, they entered a jumble of boulders and stopped. We could make out
several of them lying down. One fine old yellow fellow stretched himself
comfortably atop a flat rock, in the position of a bronze lion on a
pedestal. We waited twenty minutes to make sure they were not going to
move. Then, leaving all our men except the gunbearers under the tree, we
slipped back until out of sight, and began to execute our flank
movement. The chances seemed good. The jumble of boulders was surrounded
by open country, and it was improbable the lions could leave it without
being seen. We had arranged with our men a system of signals.
For two hours we walked very hard in order to circle out of sight, down
wind, and to gain the other side of the ridge back of the lions. We
purposed slipping over the ridge and attacking from above. Even this was
but a slight advantage. The job was a stiff one, for we might expect
certainly the majority to charge.
Therefore, when we finally deployed in skirmish order and bore down on
that patch of brush and boulders, we were braced for the shock of
battle. We found nothing. Our men, however, signalled that the lions had
not left cover. After a little search, however, we discovered a very
shallow depression running slantwise up the hill and back of the cover.
So slight it was that even the glasses had failed to show it from below.
The lions had in all probability known about us from the start, and
were all the time engaged in withdrawing after their leisurely fashion.
Of course we hunted for them; in fact, we spent two days at it; but we
never found trace of them again. The country was too hard for tracking.
They had left Lucania. Probably by the time we had completed our two
hours of flanking movement they were five miles away. The presence of
cubs would account for this. In ordinary circumstances we should have
had a wonderful and exciting fight. But the sight of those fifteen great
beasts was one I shall never forget.
After we had hunted Lucania thoroughly we parted company with the Hills,
and returned to Juja Farm.