Not many living men, and even fewer in the ages that are past,
have--if I may use the word--sported with greater assiduity and
success than I have during a life which is even now little past its
middle period. At one time on horseback, at another on the bounding
and impulsive elephant; now bestriding the matchless dromedary on his
native prairie, now posted on foot in a jungle crowded with golden
pheasants in all the native splendour of their plumage; sometimes
matching my solitary craft against a host of foxes on the swelling
uplands of Leicestershire, sometimes facing the Calydonian boar or the
sanguinary panther in their woodland lairs, dealing showers of leaden
death from a hundred tubes, or tracking my fearful prey by the lonely
light of a wax vesta and despatching it at midnight with my trusty
bowie--wherever there were leagues to be walked, risks to be run,
or fastnesses to be rushed there not only have I been the first, but
(paradoxical as it may appear) there also have I succeeded and have
never been successfully followed. My experiences are therefore unique,
and it is in the hope that they may to some extent profit a younger
generation, less inured, I fear, to hardship and danger than my own,
that I now set pen to paper and recount some of the exploits that have
made my name famous wherever sport is loved and true sportsmen are
revered.
A less modest man might have said more, but one whose deeds speak
for him in every quarter of the world may well be content to leave to
punier men the ridiculous trumpeting braggadocio that too often makes
so-called sportsmen the laughing stock of society. For myself, I can
never forget the lesson I learned at an early age from my dear father,
himself a shikari of no common order, though to be sure, as he himself
would be the first to admit if he were alive, the exploits of the son
(I had no brothers) have now thrust the parental performances into
the background. Still, it was my father who first inculcated upon my
infant mind the daring, the ignorance of fear, the contempt of danger,
and the iron endurance which have since made me a household word.
Heaven rest the old man! He sleeps his last sleep far away in the
Desert of Golden Sand, with no head-stone to mark his resting-place,
and neither the roaring of his old enemies the tigers, nor the
bellowing of the countless alligators who infest the spot can rouse
him any more. Alas! it was trustfulness that destroyed him. He was
gored to death by a favourite rhinoceros that he had rescued at a
tender age when its mother was killed, and had brought up to know and,
as he thought, to love him. But I have always thought myself that the
rhinoceros was a treacherous brute, and though I have often been
asked to tame one, for presentation to this or that Emperor, I have
consistently declined.
Marvellous, however, as my father was in his day for his exploits and
his variegated bags of game, he was perhaps even more wonderful for
the unswerving accuracy with which he was accustomed to relate his
adventures. Far and wide over the steppes of Central Asia, the burning
regions of equatorial Africa, the precipitous haunts of the
American Grizzly, and the wild retreats of the ferocious Albanian
pig--everywhere, in short, where he had set foot or drawn trigger,
this peculiarity of his was known and appreciated, and many a
respectful _sobriquet_ did it earn for him from the savage tribes
amongst whom he spent the best years of his life. In Kashmir he was
known as _Peili Ton_, that is, the man who cannot lie; amongst the
swarthy Zambesians the name of _Govun Bettîr_ (the Undefeated and
Veracious Man) was a name to conjure with even when in their moments
of warlike passion the tribesmen rushed madly through their primeval
thickets, shouting their terrible war-cry, "_Itzup ures Leeve_," that
is, "Death to the white-faced robbers."
[Illustration: "He had indeed seen ten bocks."]
But what I wished specially to relate about my poor father was the
lesson of truthfulness which he inculcated upon me at an early age. He
and I (I was then but a lad of twelve) had been hunting the ferocious
Pilsener gemsbock through the wild Lagerland in which he makes his
home. It happened one morning that we had parted company. To me was
assigned the duty of beating through the Bier-Wald, the dense forest
which stretches mile upon mile in unbroken gloom to the confines of
the Boose-See. The Fates were propitious. Wherever I turned I saw
a victim, and one after another I brought down with unerring aim
twenty-four (as I thought) of these noble animals, whose horns are
now worth a king's ransom, and might, even in those distant days, have
rescued a minor German Prince from captivity. Hastening home with
my booty loaded upon my back--I was a strong boy for my age, but of
course nothing to what I have since become--I met my dear father just
as I reached the door of the hut which served us for hunting quarters.
Joyously I cast down my burden, and sprang to his side. But my father
wore an expression of annoyance, and I soon discovered that the luck
had been against him. He had indeed seen ten bocks, but for some
reason his aim had lacked its accustomed deadliness, and he had come
back empty-handed. I condoled with him in a boy's artless fashion, and
proceeded to tell him how fortunate I had been.
"How many have you shot?" he asked me.
"Twenty-four," was my reply.
"Count them," said my father.
I did so, and you may judge of my astonishment when I found that
twenty-six had fallen to my gun. I counted again and again. Yes, there
were twenty-six of them. With one of my shots I must have brought down
three. In the agitation of the moment I had overlooked this. I told
my father that I had made a slight mistake, and endeavoured to explain
how it had arisen. But my father was inexorable.
"A lie," he said, "is a lie. You said you had shot twenty-four, you
have actually killed twenty-six. You must suffer."
Over the rest of the painful scene I draw a veil. The shrieks of my
mother, who implored pardon for me on her bended knees, still seem to
ring in my ears. Since that time I have always respected not only
the strict truth, but also the leather thongs which are in use in the
Lagerland for the droves of untameable cattle that roam the prairies.
This was my lesson, and I have never, never forgotten it.
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