+By Frank E. Verney.+
There were four of us on the bungalow veranda. Behind us, grim and
gaunt in the glow of the Southern Cross, rose the Blue Mountains;
out ahead, six miles away, twinkled the lights of Kingston Harbour;
whilst around us, from the profusion of tropical flowers, jewelled
with flitting fireflies, came sweet incense and insects of a painfully
inquisitive turn of mind.
It was not the charm of the night or the assaults of the mosquitoes
that held our attention, however, but the prospect of an alligator-hunt
on the morrow, led by the redoubtable Corker,[1] our host, who, under
the influence of plentiful potions of "planters' punch" and the
presence of two unsophisticated "subs" of the West India Regiment, had
been telling us tales of mighty deeds done in obtaining the trophies
which now covered his walls.
[1] For obvious reasons I have altered the real names of the parties
concerned.--+The Author.+
[Illustration: THE BUNGALOW FROM WHICH THE AUTHOR AND HIS COMPANIONS
STARTED OUT ON THEIR SHOOTING TRIP.
_From a Photograph._]
There was no planter in Jamaica to compare with Corker as a
hunter--certainly there was none who could show so many pelts and
heads; and if some of his stories were rather "tall," many of them
had a strong basis of fact, as evidenced by the size of the "bags"
which always accompanied his return from a shooting trip. As Jamaica
itself contains no big game other than alligator, one has to go to the
adjoining American continent for this class of shooting; and this fact
formed the assailable spot in Corker's reputation, for there were those
on the island who hinted darkly of New York naturalists, and suggested
that literature lost a great light when Corker became a planter.
Anyhow, I refrained from intruding such rude remarks on the peace of
our party out of respect for the feelings of my host and consideration
for the enthusiasm of his other two listeners.
After Corker had told his customary concluding yarn, we fell to
discussing where on Corker's walls could space be found to accommodate
the alligator hides he, with us to help him, was about to secure.
The next morning we tumbled from under our mosquito-nets and, after a
hasty breakfast, made a start. Corker had already sent on our arms,
which, in addition to our shooting impedimenta and flaying-knives,
consisted of a case of soda-water, a block of swathed ice, and two
bottles of what Corker called "milk," to neutralize the effects of the
swamp for which we were bound.
Mounting our native ponies, we rode down through the plantation by a
short cut. Through tobacco fields and fields of guinea grass as high
as our saddles, and down hill-sides as steep as the roof of a house,
dodging palms and banana trees _en route_, our ponies took us, never
faltering or making a false step, until, after a three-mile ride, we
arrived at Constant Spring. At this place we sent back our mounts and
did the remaining six miles into Kingston on an up-to-date electric
tram-car.
Through the hot, dusty suburbs, past crowds of native women on their
way to market, their heads laden with produce, their bare feet padding
the scorched road, past dismantled residences with walls torn asunder
by the earthquake of a year ago, into the stricken city of Kingston
itself our car carried us, until at length we reached the harbour-side
and inhaled deep breaths of the grand breeze which comes across the
Caribbean Sea.
[Illustration: MR. VERNEY, THE AUTHOR.
_From a Photograph._]
By eleven o'clock we had ourselves and our gear, together with two
black boys, stowed away in a large, open boat. Hoisting our sail, we
were soon bowling over the blue waters of Kingston Bay on the way to
alligatordom, the cooling breeze tempering the fierce sun-glare.
As usual, Corker was busy describing his phenomenal capacity for
conquering the beasts of the field, and would permit no silent
revelry in the beauty and joy of the scene. Sitting in the bows of
the boat, playing cup and ball with a tumbler and its contents, he
gave us innumerable hints as to the best way of stalking alligators,
illustrating the success of his methods with several modest stories
of what he had achieved at the very spot to which we were bound. I
had shot "crocs" myself on the Indian Sunderbunds, but I offered no
supplementary yarns, for I knew that Corker could easily cap anything I
might say.
However, by the time we had imbibed about as much advice as we could
comfortably hold without confusion, we rounded the western point of the
bay and found ourselves at the estuary of the Rio Cobre. Up this river,
far away from the coast, there are some of the fairest spots on God's
earth; but at its mouth it is an inferno well worthy of its description
as "Jamaica's death-hole."
A wide stretch of steaming swamp, intersected with inky streams of
stinking water, a breeding-place for the fever-propagating mosquito
and a home for all the loathsome creeping things of the island, it is
almost as bad as some of the pestilential swamps of the West African
coast, and seen in its beautiful setting of blue seas and golden beach
dotted with graceful green palms, it looks even worse.
But since it held our quarry we were prepared to disregard its hygienic
and scenic shortcomings, so we ran our craft on to a bank inshore, and,
clambering out, waded through the warm sea to the rotting vegetation
and repulsive mud and slime of the delta.
Fixing our rendezvous on a fairly dry spot close to our landing-place,
we arranged our plan of action. At this juncture Corker very generously
offered to stay behind to see that the boat and the "milk" came to
no harm, but, of course, none of us would hear of such a sacrifice.
Finally we decided to divide forces. Hunter and Madox, the two West
India Regiment men, were to go together, accompanied by one of the
black "boys," an accomplished 'gator tracker; whilst Corker and I
joined guns, the other "boy" coming with us to flay anything we might
get. Separating, in accordance with this plan, Corker and I squelched
off through the fœtid slime toward the upper end of the delta.
As we slushed along we carefully scanned the banks of dried mud,
intersecting the numerous lagoons, for "sign," listening keenly the
while for snapping jaws and splashing bodies. We had to be very much
on the _qui vive_, for at any moment, in stepping round the low bushes
or wading waist-deep through the intersecting streams, we might have
trodden on a sleeping saurian, with unpleasant results, for, despite an
unwieldy-looking body, the 'gator is capable of very swift movement,
and, what is more, both ends of him are dangerous--with his jaws he may
lop off a leg; with his tail he may break one's back.
After trudging about for some time, filling our lungs with vapour from
the steaming swamp, while our skins were irritated by the bites of
myriads of insects, we reached a dark, evil-smelling lagoon crusted
with cracking mud. At the side of it were several indentations, varying
in size, which indicated that a 'gator family had but recently been
taking the sun.
With such tangible evidence before me of the near presence of the
brutes, I suggested waiting quietly for the family's reappearance.
Corker, however, having his own idea about the wisdom of my suggestion,
told me I should only be wasting time. He therefore elected to leave me
with the boy, whilst he crossed to the middle stream "to make sure of a
decent hide," asking me to join him when I was tired of my vigil.
[Illustration: "I FIRED CLEAN INTO HIS MAW."]
As he tramped off through the inky slime I squatted down on a mud-bank,
with my rifle across my knees. Between me and the indentations was a
low clump of vegetation, which shielded me from observation without
interfering with my vision. The boy I had stationed out of sight in a
slight hollow on the far side of my mud perch. With these precautions
I set myself to wait. The sun, well overhead, beat down pitilessly on
my shadeless position, blistering the pattern of my thin shirt on to
my skin; whilst all the most vicious mosquitoes of the swamp came to
signify their appreciation of my succulent presence by dining on me,
and other creeping things began the tour of investigation which my
scanty attire of shirt, breeches, boots, and topée invited. Verily, ye
men who grumble at the hardship of waiting for driven birds on a Scotch
moor should try a day in a tropical swamp!
After enduring these manifold pleasures for an hour or more, the
surface of the lagoon began to heave, and a black snout showed itself
in the sunlight.
Looking round, and finding no cause for alarm, the wily 'gator slushed
his way to his basking place, some twenty yards distant from where I
sat. I raised my rifle slowly and covered him as he hoisted himself
out of the slime. Just then the distant crack of Corker's rifle
startled my 'gator. Raising his head he opened his capacious jaws, and
as he did so I fired clean into his maw. He shut his teeth together
with a resounding snap, coughed like a stricken cow, and slid back
into the slime. I thought I had lost him, but after a final titanic
convulsion, which spattered the blood-streaked mud almost to my
position, he swung round on to the ooze again and lay still. Advancing
to within five yards, I gave him another bullet through the eye, to
prevent accidents; then, aided by my yelling boy, we levered him up on
to the dry bank. From the end of his snout to the tip of his powerful
tail he measured about eleven feet!
Well satisfied with the result of my uncomfortable wait, and
instructing the black boy to go back to the boat with the skin when
he had taken it off, I followed the direction which Corker had taken,
wondering what luck the shots I had heard portended.
After hunting about for some time without finding him, and not hearing
further shots, I concluded he had gone back to the lagoon to get the
boy's assistance in flaying his "bag," and that therefore I had missed
him.
As I picked my way round some low driftwood by one of the soapy
streams, I stumbled over a half-buried log. In recovering my balance I
noticed that one end of the log, which was some fourteen feet long, had
been freshly splintered, and, strange to say, by rifle shots.
Suddenly the explanation dawned upon me. The doughty Corker, hero of
wonderful stories and holder of many "spoils," had fallen into that
facile error of the novice and shot a fallen log!
Picking up a stout splinter, which showed two neatly-drilled holes, I
made my way, grinning hugely, back to the rendezvous.
That night, when all had retired to rest at Corker's bungalow, his
three guests, clad in pyjamas and shaking with subdued mirth, crept on
to the veranda and fastened up in a central position among their host's
trophies a perforated redwood log splinter!