CATTLE RAIDERS
_Note._—The figures in this adventure are fictional: otherwise
the setting and the theme are real.
Saidi-bin-Mohammed, native of East Africa, had been to the war a year.
When the English had gone to the borders of his country to face the
German enemy, Saidi had followed his white master.
One day in June, about 5 o’clock—about that time of day most pleasant in
Africa, when the sun is lowering in the west and losing its intensive
piercing heat—Saidi, tall, and straight and athletic, was busied outside
his small grass hut, cleaning his equipment and rifle with the interest
and care of one who had pride in dearly loved possessions. Across the
dry, bleached, much-trampled opening of the encampment, which lay in
the midst of virgin bush-land, appeared the gaunt figure of a British
officer. He stooped, as with age, and his dark, tanned face bore heavy
traces of exposure and hardship, in the deep-lined furrows which covered
his forehead, and in the fine lines that contracted to the corners of
his tired eyes. But, though worn and lean, he had still about him the
bearing of resolute manhood—the bearing of one who is strong to endure
and conquer, even under difficulties and a merciless tropic sun. Clive
Clifford had, in the old days, been a pioneer of unbound frontiers, and a
hunter of big game: to-day he was a famous scout; a man whose knowledge
and whose word carried weight in the highest quarters of command.
He approached Saidi, who smiled broadly seeing that his master, whom he
held in high regard, came to him. Clifford spoke in the soft, halting
consonants of the Swahili language, and addressed his “boy” in kindly
manner, as a man speaking to a trusted servant. “Saidi,” he said, “get
ready. We go out to-night, you and I, and stay out many days. Eat food
now; and be ready to leave in an hour.”
[Sidenote: SINGLE-HANDED ADVENTURE]
Some hours before, half a dozen Masai warriors had run into camp to
report that enemy had stolen many of their cattle, and were driving them
off across the border. Clifford heard the story. He knew the country the
enemy were plundering, and volunteered at once to go in pursuit. It was
an adventure dear to his heart.
At dusk they quietly left the noisy, troop-filled camp—the master
leading, Saidi following. They were mounted on wiry, donkey-like
Somali mules, animals so small that they appeared disproportionately
overburdened with their load and their well-filled saddle-bags. But in
this they were deceptive. Clifford knew them, from long experience,
to have no equal in animal transport in the country. Tireless little
animals they were, grit to the back-bone, and strong to endure long,
heart-breaking treks.
Clifford was fully armed, with rifle and cartridge-filled bandolier; as
was his boy. A “slouch” hat, a sleeveless khaki shirt, open at the neck;
and a pair of shorts, leaving the scarred, sun-burned knees bare and
free, was Clifford’s uniform. Undress, but near to coolness and comfort
as possible—and protective in colour, for, when smothered in dust,
as all would soon be, his light drill khaki would be as a tussock of
sun-bleached grass or a hillock of sand, if danger bid him take cover....
[Sidenote: NIGHT AND WILDERNESS]
Some hours later, after making good time in the cool of early night,
the travellers began to work clear of the low thorn-bush, and emerged
into open, somewhat mountainous country. Clifford was travelling west
now, and travelling fast; feeling his way over the country to some
distant prearranged destination. Saidi, the expert guide, was out in
the lead—for no white man has eyes or hearing equal to the black in his
native country. Both travellers were dismounted and led their mules. They
wound their way through tall valley grass, breast high and dust-laden;
over pools of mud, long sun-baked and waterless; then out, finally, on to
rising ground strewn with lava rock and volcanic boulders. It was weird
wilderness country, barren of habitation—virgin and waterless as on the
day of Africa’s dawning.
The night progressed uneventfully. Nothing suspicious was encountered.
No tracks of the cattle raiders were crossed. The air was breathlessly
still, and it was oppressively hot in the valleys.
Toward midnight the waning moon drooped lower and lower on the
horizon—and went out. Travelling then became slower and more wary;
occasionally man or mule stumbled over a boulder painfully and noisily in
the breathless darkness. No conversation passed between man and servant.
Tirelessly they padded on, each certain of the other’s knowledge almost
as animals are certain of the bypaths to their lair. For them the night
held little mystery. They were startled not by the grim silhouettes of
zebra, or hartebeeste, when, at a dozen yards, they chanced upon game
herds which galloped off into the night like riderless squadrons. Nor
did the whir of wings and frightened cackle of guinea-fowl, disturbed at
their very feet, more than startle the mules to one brief backward jerk
of their bridle reins.
Day was dawning when Saidi, who had for some hours been following an
obscure track through the dark with his lynx eyes, gave a grunt of
satisfaction as a gap loomed visible between two dull grey hills in
front. Soon they entered a narrow pass and prepared to make camp in the
hidden cavity between the hills. Here was water, and camp, and the first
halt in the march; for a dry rocky river-bed, cut by the torrents of the
brief rainy season, ran down the pass, and there, in a deep pocket in
the solid rock, worn smooth and circular as a gigantic porridge pot, was
a pool of water, green-slimed and stagnant, it is true, but priceless,
nevertheless, in the sun-parched desert. The mules were off-saddled,
rubbed down, and fed; and picketed under cover of the hill-side—for they
were now in country where the raiders might be encountered, and every
precaution was being taken to lie low and outwit the enemy.
Saidi busied himself over a small smokeless fire, making tea for his
master, while Clifford lay idly on the ground watching the doves and
grass-finches, which in thousands were endlessly arriving at the
water-hole to drink, fearless of human presence in their haste and need
to quench their thirst.
“Water far, Saidi,” said Clifford, pointing to the fluttering flock over
the pool. “Birds come long distance to drink here?”
“Yes, Bwana” (master), answered Saidi. “No other water nearer than one
day.”
By turns Clifford and Saidi slept and kept watch throughout the day. The
camp was in the foothills of a low range, east of the Guaso Nyero Valley.
Away to the west, out to the Nguruman Mountains, blue in the farthermost
distance, lay the far-reaching Guaso Nyero Valley; and it was on this
great plain, somewhere, that the enemy were raiding the Masai cattle.
Clifford hardly expected to find trace of the enemy until after another
march, when he would be well over the western side of the valley, and
where he knew there was a sluggish stream and an abundance of water—that
physical essential, to man and beast, anywhere in the land. But he was
taking no risks—nothing for granted—for a little mistake meant life or
death to the enterprise, if not to himself.
So all day long watchful eyes scanned the western plain, but only to be
rewarded with the familiar sight of occasional dust-clouds; sometimes
kicked up by the feet of moving game, such as zebra, hartebeeste,
wildebeeste, or buffalo; and sometimes the sport of a whirlpool gust
of wind which swiftly sweeps the ground, finally to rear a thin spiral
dust-column tapering from the ground to a point high in the sky.
[Sidenote: MASAI CATTLEMEN]
Toward sundown three Masai were sighted, worming their way in and out of
the long yellow grass toward the water-hole. They came from the west, and
were travelling hurriedly, perhaps fearfully—for ever and anon the rear
man of the trio would cast a hasty backward glance over his shoulder.
Cunningly, in fear that foe might be at the water, they swung wide of the
pass before approaching, and lay down while one of their number started
to steal forward in the grass to investigate. But a shout from Saidi,
and then an exchange of a reassuring word or two, brought them speedily
to their feet, and into camp.
Like all of the Masai race, they were strange, red-skinned fellows, those
wandering cattle men of the open uplands; wholly naked but for a loin
cloth, and physical pictures of the aboriginal of the plain. For arms,
they had each a long assegai, and a large mat-laced shield. They were
covered with dust—otherwise, their bearing conveyed nothing untoward.
It would be difficult to guess that beneath those features, cool and
collected, expressionless, almost sullen, there lurked the emotions of
men who had been near to death an hour or two ago.
After they had all drunk copiously of water, at a little distance from
Clifford, they squatted on the ground with their knees drawn up under
their chins, and told their hurried, broken story.
In their own language they arrived crudely and directly at essential
facts.
[Sidenote: GERMAN FREEBOOTERS]
“Germans, master, many Germans,” said their spokesman, showing, for the
first time, a spark of excitement. “This day, when sun there”—pointing
to the mid-horizon south-east—“our cattle quiet—we cooking food; at
that time he come—one German, two German, three German, on horse—after
him come plenty Askaris [native soldiers] driving many cattle—cattle
footsore, for long way he made go too fast. One German ride among us—he
got small gun, and promise shoot to kill if we try to run away—Askaris
come soon and bind our hands with cord; then one man stay to watch us.
In little while Germans make fire and eat—plenty talk—plenty bottle
[beer]—German pleased. By and by German sleep. By and by Askaris, who
watch us, he sleep too—he plenty tired. Headman, he find stone beneath
him and work cord binding hands against it. Sometime, cord cut—soon,
then, we all free. We crawl in grass, far—afterwards we wait and watch.
When the sun there” (pointing to sun’s position about three hours later)
“German wake—find no boy. Plenty noise—Askari who watch us, he get plenty
beating—afterwards they tie him prisoner—German afraid we run far and
fast and go tell British. Soon German go—driving all cattle—our cattle
too. But other cattle tired, master, he no go quick now; and German near
his own country. He go Shombole and Lake Natron, one day’s trail, after
that, soon he reach big German camp.”
Clifford was lost in thought—the Masai had ceased talking, and the
youngest of them, a mere lad, had fallen asleep, hunched up awkwardly,
on the bare, hard ground, weary beyond further caring. Saidi, who had
listened attentively to all, moved off and busied himself over a fire and
his master’s evening meal. The customary evening breeze had not arisen,
it was close and oppressively hot, and a subdued spirit lay over the
land. Clifford restlessly stirred the gravel beneath his feet, lost in
his conjectures. He was wide awake and his keen, roving eyes betokened an
intelligent mind stirred to unusual degree. The enterprise had taken on a
serious aspect. Clifford had anticipated, if he were fortunate, he would
run up against a small raiding party of one or two whites and a native
soldier or two. His original difficulty, he thought, would be to track
them, and overtake them. He found himself, instead, pitted against four
whites and some dozen armed Askaris, whom he could head off, on their
southward trail, in a single night’s march.
The odds were great—too great—but he was too far from his base to call
for reinforcements; he must go on as he was, or return to camp mortified
at having had the enemy within reach while admitting his inability to
strike.
Clifford rose impatiently to his feet and paced to and fro.
But slowly a new resolution crept into his face and bearing, and at last
his mind was made up. He called his boy. “Saidi,” he said, “I’m not going
to stop here and go back; I’m going on. I may not fight, for the Germans
are many; but I mean to get as near to the raiders as I can, and, for the
rest, trust to luck and opportunity. You, Saidi, are free to go back if
you please. I cannot order you to run the risks ahead against such odds.
This is my ‘show.’”
But Saidi was staunch and true. “Where master go, I want to go—me not
afraid,” he said; and indeed he did not look one whit abashed—rather was
there a new-found pride in his bearing.
The undertaking thus promoted, Clifford, with mind relieved, partook of
the substantial meal which Saidi had prepared. They then saddled the
mules, and were ready again to take up the trail of the raiders. The
exhausted Masai were given some food from Saidi’s saddle-bags and told
to sleep at the water-hole for the night. They were directed to follow
Clifford’s tracks in the morning, and remain at a discreet distance from
the enemy, unless sent for.
On leaving camp Clifford headed out into the south-west, for it was his
intention to cut across the German line of flight, well in front of them,
and, before daybreak, to hide among the low kopjes east of Lake Natron.
To carry this out he must travel hard all night. Accordingly the pace he
set off at was determined and sustained. Man and beast perspired freely
as they toiled onward; for relentlessly the night breeze held off, and
the still, humid air hung, like the vapours of a hot-house, over the
breathless valley. To add to the discomfort, the trotting mules raised,
from the dust-laden grass, a fine dust which remained suspended in the
air to irritate the nostrils and throats of the travellers, and induce a
quenchless, vexing thirst. However, until midnight Clifford held on his
course unfalteringly. At that hour, just before the moon went down, he
halted to rest and ease the saddle-girths of the tired mules.
Half an hour later he resumed the journey; but on foot, now that it was
pitch dark, the mules led, and faithful, tireless Saidi out in front
trailing, with his keen eyes, over unseen landmarks, for the low hills
his master had named.
[Sidenote: ACROSS THE GUASO NYERO VALLEY]
They were in rough country now—rough with awkward boulders and ragged
lava rocks. Moreover, the travellers were repeatedly confronted with
yawning chasms—deep, dry, tortuous river-beds—which barred their path.
In the inky darkness to surmount these obstacles was difficult and
delaying, and Clifford cursed them roundly while he “barked” his shins in
scrambling up and down banks of unknown depth, forcing his way across in
the wake of Saidi, whose presence he could feel rather than see.
To add to their difficulties, the mules were restless. They were in fear
of lions, for twice, away northward, the night stillness had vibrated
with the awesome whouh —— whouh —— whouh —— whouh —— whouh —— whouh ——
wwho —— wwho —— wwho —— wwho —— wwho —— wwho of the King of Beasts. The
sound brought terror to the hearts of the mules, and delayed progress.
But, at the same time, it brought a note of good cheer to the party, for
to the experienced ears of Clifford and Saidi the lions’ roar was a good
omen, coming, as it did, from the north-west of their position: for they
guessed that the lions were among the beasts of prey following in the
track of the trekking cattle, ready to drag down and devour the weaker
ones which became too exhausted to go on and were outcast from the herd.
If the surmise was correct, Clifford felt sure he was cutting in well
ahead of the cattle raiders—and only that result could compensate him for
the toil of travelling this ghastly country in the dark.
About 4 a.m. Clifford, in spite of short halts, was feeling done up
with his exertions in keeping pace with Saidi. Hardened though he was,
he inwardly admitted he was about finished on this trek. He halted and
whistled peculiarly to Saidi, who stopped likewise. Saidi came back
to his master, apparently cool and tireless as ever, and sure of his
untraced road. Clifford asked him how far he thought they were from
the hills. In answer, Saidi pointed into the darkness a little to the
left. “There, master,” he said, “close now—river we cross last, near to
hills—soon we camp.”
Thus cheered, they started on the final tramp; but Saidi’s hills were
deceptive, his “short distance” stretched out to a good two miles before
the tired party reached their chosen hiding-place.
[Sidenote: LAKE NATRON AT DAWN]
At the first inkling of dawn, Clifford moved well into the hills and
secreted the mules in the bottom of a valley thickly grown with cactus.
From there Clifford and Saidi made their way to a spur overlooking the
plain on the west and north. Here they concealed themselves among some
acacia bushes, after they had made sure that, in the event of discovery,
there was a line of retreat down either slope of the spur to thicker
cover—whence their hidden rifles could put up a reasonable defence
against odds, if need be.
From where he stood in the early morning dawn, Clifford had a wonderful
view of the wild life and of the country. Below him a small herd of
graceful antelope, known as Grant’s gazelle, was browsing quietly in
the immediate foreground of the plain—a plain of dry, buff-coloured
grass which stretched some two miles to the west, to the shores of Lake
Natron. In the intermediate distance was a great herd of unsymmetrical
hartebeeste (buck of size and colour of red deer), and pony-like zebra,
moving along, in ever-changing attitudes, busy on their morning feed,
and lending life and colour to the peaceful scene. Along the shores of
Lake Natron, white soda deposit glistened like silver in the lightening
day, whilst the waters of the lake appeared dyed in pink where countless
flamingoes rested. A mile or two up the valley, at the head of Lake
Natron, and to the east of the swamp of tall green grass which is there,
rugged old Shombole mountain stood prominent with its furrowed surface
of deep ravines and back-bone ridges, the whole overawed by the sheer
cliff face, and the inaccessible plateau at the towering crest, of the
most westerly range. In many places the outer slopes of Shombole were
buff with the dry, yellow grass of the plains, but in the ravines, and
on sheltered slopes, dark-green foliage grew where overcrowded masses of
impenetrable cactus had found root, and an existence, amongst the rocks.
Meantime there was no sign of the enemy—nothing moved, except droves of
game in this hunter’s paradise.
Clifford estimated that he was an hour or two ahead of the raiders, and
soon he dozed in the cool of the morning—leaving Saidi on guard. He
trusted the boy completely, for the experience of long months had proved
him always faithful and fearless to serve. Faithful as a wonderful dog
was Saidi, and “greater faith hath no man.” Saidi worshipped his master.
Some hours passed—Clifford had fallen into profound sleep after his long
night’s exertion, for he was more easily tired now than in the old days
before he knew the impairing ravages of fever. The heightened day found
Saidi still at his post. But he was now tense and alert, and his eyes
were eagerly fixed on a cloud of dust approaching from the north. There
were the raiders! of that he was sure; for he had seen a horseman break
off to the right, clear of the dust, for a moment or two. However, he
would not wake his master yet; the raiders were far out at present, and
the cattle they herded moved very slowly.
In a short time, however, he espied two horsemen riding forward, at an
easy gallop, clear of the herd. They were probably coming on ahead to
select their noon camp, confident that the plain was uninhabited but by
themselves. Seeing this, Saidi woke Clifford, who was instantly on his
feet, and eager to sight the enemy.
[Sidenote: DARING]
Immediately a daring scheme of attack flashed through Clifford’s
mind—the enemy were playing into his hands in separating their forces.
Hastily he lifted his rifle, spoke a few excited words to Saidi, and
started to steal through the grass down to the plain on the west. Once
on the plain they scrambled and crawled, under cover of a dry, shallow
rivulet, seeking to reach the probable line over which the advancing
horsemen would pass. Over a mile they laboured, slowly, awkwardly, until,
scratched, torn, and breathless with their mad haste, they lay still;
near to the place on which the enemy were bearing.
As Fate would have it, the horsemen bore straight down on them, utterly
unaware of danger. Clifford whispered to Saidi that he was to shoot
the nearest horse at the same time as he (Clifford) fired. With their
rifles in the grass, and with heads low, they watched and waited. Grim
was the expression on their faces now, all outward excitement had gone:
nerves were set, and “steeled” against the coming effort. Suddenly—when
the horses were barely fifteen yards away, Clifford whispered tersely,
“Now!” Simultaneously, both rifles spoke, and all was violent struggle
and confusion on the ground in front. Clifford stood upright and fired
quickly again. Then, harshly, he called out a command in German, while
like a flash his rifle swung to his right and remained aimed at its
object. Unmoved, he ordered Saidi from his hiding-place. Both horses
were down, and the nearest German; the other German had his hands up,
covered by Clifford. Saidi removed the German’s rifle, which lay on the
ground where it had been thrown when the horse, with its rider, fell.
The prisoner was then speedily bound and gagged, so that he could not
warn the others, and concealed in the rivulet ditch. The other German was
dead, and both horses. The horses could not be moved, so, to disguise
them from sight at a distance, the carcases were hastily covered with
prairie grass.
Meantime the main body of the enemy was approaching, but, luckily, at a
slow pace. The scene enacted had been lost to the other raiders, for a
low rise lay between them and the ground, gently falling to the lake,
where Clifford had ambushed the leaders. The rifle shots they must have
heard, but, as they were not expecting enemy, they would probably think
that their comrades were after game, for meat for their natives, as was
common practice.
[Sidenote: CLIFFORD STRIKES]
After making certain that the prisoner was securely bound and concealed,
and unable to move away, Clifford now moved hastily forward; his
intention being to reach the protection of a small knoll about six
hundred yards nearer to the approaching enemy and away from the
condemning signs of catastrophe. But before he got there, dust, over
the rise, warned him and his boy to take cover. So they lay on the open
veldt, in the hay grass, not daring to move to better cover, for, at any
instant now, horsemen, or keen-sighted Askari, might appear in view.
Lying there, Clifford gave his orders to Saidi, who grinned still over
the success of their first attack. “Fire like H⸺, Saidi! at Askaris—make
plenty noise—make him think plenty British here. Make him run!”
Clifford was confident of the outcome now, and eager for the fray. By an
extraordinary piece of luck the white opposition had been evened up: and
now he had the advantage of surprise, and the consequent target for his
deadly rifle.
Slowly the raiders appeared in view over the rising ground, and drew
on. Together the Germans scanned the plain ahead, but beyond a word or
two they, apparently, did not trouble about the non-appearance of their
comrades—they thought, no doubt, that theirs was only a momentary
disappearance behind some low ridge in the distance.
The raiders sat their horses idly, and watched the tired cattle being
herded on; they swore at their Askaris and urged them, time without
number, to lash on the many laggards. Apparently they were weary of their
work, and tired of the trek.
Clifford and Saidi were waiting breathlessly. The herd was a bit to the
right, but was going to pass them at about fifty yards. Steadily they
drew on. Again the rifles were ready in the grass; again Clifford’s
terse, “now!” was whispered, and startling shots rang out. And then the
scene was like a battle. Shots poured from their hidden haven in the
grass, as fast as they could load and fire, simply to disguise their
strength and frighten the blacks.
[Sidenote: ROUTING THE RAIDERS]
Clifford had brought down his first man, but the second white he missed,
as his startled horse plunged and threw the rider. For a time the German
replied vigorously to their fire, but luckily he couldn’t see through
the grass, and no bullet got home. Suddenly he rose and scrambled on to
one of the horses and galloped off. Twice Clifford fired and missed,
but at the third shot the German crumpled up and slid limply from his
mount. Clifford now ran forward, and caught the remaining horse; Saidi
following at his heels. Shots whistled and cracked around them, but
all were wide of the mark; for the Askari is a poor marksman. Into
the blacks rode Clifford, reckless and wild, driving them to panic and
confusion. Two went down with his first shots, the rest, five in number,
leapt from the grass and fled in frantic disorder. One more fell,
sprawling, to Clifford’s marksmanship, and another was winged. But by
that time the remainder had spread and got farther afield, and Clifford
gave up the chase, afraid to get too far away from Saidi, who might be in
difficulties.
Returning, Clifford found Saidi broadly smiling, as was his wont when
greatly pleased. He had accounted for three Askaris. Clifford praised the
boy—though he seldom gave praise to a native—and told him, now, to make
“plenty big feed” for himself, and then to sleep—the boy had had no rest
since the day before.
While Saidi busied himself lighting a fire, Clifford counted the cost.
One German was dead, one wounded. Four Askaris were dead, and three
wounded. After he had gone back and brought the prisoner to camp,
Clifford attended to the wounded. When that gruesome work was finished,
he sought a vantage-point on a rise, and, from there, sent three piercing
whistles out over the plain.
He was soon rewarded by the sight of natives, showing in the grass, about
a mile to the east. They were the three Masai left behind overnight; and
he signalled to them to come on.
In a short time the Masai came up.
Fear was first in their approach, then astonishment, when they sighted
the destruction of the enemy, and Clifford and Saidi in complete
possession of the cattle. Their usually passive faces broke into
broad smiles, they gesticulated excitedly in their exclamations over
the extraordinary scene; and, finally, they came, one by one, before
Clifford, to voice their timid gratitude, and to salaam profoundly,
as vassals to their lord. He was, in their eyes, indeed a mighty and
wonderful white chief.
A “chit” was written to G.H.Q. asking for a mounted patrol to be sent
out to conduct the cattle back to a safe area, and a Masai runner was
dispatched with it to camp—with instructions, also, to send word to his
tribe to furnish some men to dig graves.
The remaining Masai counted the cattle. They numbered close on seven
hundred head—a substantial meat ration for the Europeans over the border,
if the raid had succeeded. Clifford directed the Masai to drive the
cattle slowly back to the Guaso Nyero River, and to wait for him at the
bend beyond the northern slopes of Mount Shombole. Before leaving, they
released the hidden mules, and drove them also to water.
Three days later an officer and a native soldier rode into the British
camp, dust-covered and with clothes torn. Dismounting, the officer left
his mule in the care of the native and passed on to the encampment of
G.H.Q.
Down the dry dust-thick lanes of the camp stalked the well-known figure
of the famous scout—the lean, the brown, the worn bushman, scarred and
tired with exposure and climate—a thing of the wild world and the silent
places—unassuming, almost shy. But, on a thousand lips the news flew
among the troops that Clive Clifford was back—and glad men came from
their tents to cheer him past.
And Saidi, unsaddling the mules in the horse lines, hearing the welcome,
smiled in content.