We were outspanned near some deep shaded water-holes, and at about three
o'clock I took my rifle and wandered off in the hope of dropping across
something for the larder and having some sport during the three hours
before the evening trek would begin; and as there was plenty of spoor of
many kinds the prospects seemed good enough.
We had been going along slowly, it may be for half an hour, without
seeing more than a little stembuck scurrying away in the distance, when
I noticed that Jock was rather busy with his nose, sniffing about in a
way that looked like business. He was not sure of anything; that was
clear, because he kept trying in different directions; not as you see a
pointer do, but very seriously silently and slowly, moving at a cautious
walk for a few yards and then taking a look about.
The day was hot and still, as usual at that time of the year, and any
noise would be easily heard, so I had stopped to give Jock a chance of
ranging about. At the moment we were in rather open ground, and finding
that Jock was still very suspicious I moved on towards where the bush
was thicker and we were less likely to be seen from a distance. As we
got near the better cover there was a rasping, squawky cry in a
cockatoo's voice, "Go 'way; go 'way; go' way!" and one of those ugly
big-beaked Go 'way birds came sailing up from behind and flapped on to
the trees we were making for. No doubt they have another name, but in
the Bushveld they were known as Go 'way birds, because of this cry and
because they are supposed to warn the game when an enemy is coming. But
they are not like the tick bird or the rhinoceros bird, who stick close
to their friends and as soon as they see or hear anything suspicious
flutter straight up filling the air with twittering cries of alarm; the
Go 'way birds do not feed on ticks and have nothing to do with the game;
you find them where there is no game, and it always seemed to me that it
is not concern for the game at all, but simply a combination of vulgar
curiosity, disagreeableness and bad manners, that makes them interfere
as they do.
The reason why I do not believe the Go 'way birds care a rap about the
game and only want to worry you is that often one of them will make up
its mind to stick to you, and you can turn twist and double as many ways
as you like, but as soon as you begin to walk on again the wretched
thing will fly over your head and perch twenty yards or so in front of
you, screeching out "Go 'way" at the top of its voice. There it will
sit ready to fly off again as you come on, its ugly head on one side and
big hooked bill like an aggressive nose, watching you mercilessly, as
vigilant as a hungry fowl and as cross as a tired nurse in a big family.
They seem to know that you cannot shoot them without making more row
and doing more harm than they do.
I stood still for a few minutes to give this one a chance to fly away,
and when it would not do so, but kept on screeching and craning its neck
at me, I threw a stone at it. It ducked violently and gave a choking
hysterical squawk of alarm and anger as the stone whizzed close to its
head; then flying on to another tree a few yards off, screamed away more
noisily than ever. Evidently the best thing to do was to go ahead
taking no notice of the creature and trusting that it would tire and
leave me alone; so I walked off briskly.
There was a slight rustling in the bush ahead of us as I stepped out,
and then the sound of feet. I made a dash for the chance of a running
shot, but it was too late, and all we saw was half a dozen beautiful
koodoo disappearing among the tree stems.
I turned towards that Go 'way bird. Perhaps he did not like the look on
my face or the way I held the rifle; for he gave one more snarling
shriek, as if he was emptying himself for ever of his rage and spite,
and flapped away.
Jock was standing like a statue, leaning slightly forward but with head
very erect, jaws tightly closed, and eyes looking straight in front, as
bright as black diamonds.
It was a bad disappointment; for that was the first time we had fairly
and squarely come upon koodoo. However, it was still early and the game
had not been scared, but had gone off quietly; so hoping for another
chance we started off at a trot along the fresh spoor.
A big koodoo bull stands as high as a bullock, and although they have
the small shapely feet of an antelope the spoor is heavy enough to
follow at a trot except on stony ground. Perhaps they know this, for
they certainly prefer the rough hard ground when they can get it. We
went along at a good pace, but with many short breaks to make sure of
the spoor in the stony parts; and it was pretty hot work, although
clothing was light for hunting. A rough flannel shirt, open at the
throat, and moleskin trousers dyed with coffee--for khaki was unknown to
us then--was the usual wear; and we carried as little as possible.
Generally a water-bottle filled with unsweetened cold tea and a
cartridge belt were all we took besides the rifle. This time I had less
than usual. Meaning to be out only for a couple of hours at most and to
stick close to the road, I had pocketed half a dozen cartridges and left
both bandolier and water-bottle behind.
It was not long before we came upon the koodoo again; but they were on
the watch. They were standing in the fringe of some thick bush,
broadside on but looking back full at us, and as soon as I stopped to
aim the whole lot disappeared with the same easy movement, just melting
away in the bush.
If I had only known it, it was a hopeless chase for an inexperienced
hunter: they were simply playing with me. The very things that seemed
so encouraging to me would have warned an old hand that running on the
trail was quite useless. When they moved off quietly, it was not
because they were foolhardy or did not realise the danger. When they
allowed us to catch up to them time after time, it was not because they
did not expect us. When they stood on the edge of thick bush where we
could see them, it was not stupidity. When they could disappear with an
easy bound, it was not accident. It was all part of the game. They
were keeping in touch with us so that we could not surprise them, and
whenever they stopped it was always where they could see us coming
through the thinner bush for a long way and where they themselves could
disappear in the thick bush in a couple of strides. Moreover, with each
fresh run they changed their direction with the object of making it
difficult for us to follow them up, and with the deliberate purpose of
eventually reaching some favourite and safe haunt of theirs.
An old hand might have known this; but a beginner goes blindly along the
spoor--exactly where they are expecting him. The chase was long and
tiring, but there was no feeling of disappointment and no thought of
giving it up: each time they came in sight we got keener and more
excited, and the end seemed nearer and more certain. I knew what the
six animals were--four cows, one young bull, and a magnificent old
fellow with a glorious head and great spiral horns. I carried his
picture in my eye and could pick him out instantly wherever he stood and
however motionless; for, incredibly difficult as it is to pick out still
objects in the bush before your eye becomes accustomed to it, it is
wonderful what you can do when your eye is in and you are cool and
intent and know what you are looking for. I had the old bull marked
down as mine, and knew his every detail--his splendid bearing, strong
shaggy neck with mane to the withers and bearded throat, the soft grey
dove-colour of the coat with its white stripes, the easy balancing
movement in carrying the massive horns as he cantered away, and the
trick of throwing them back to glide them through the bush.
The last run was a long and hard one; and the koodoo seemed to have
taken matters seriously and made up their minds to put a safe distance
between us and them. The spooring was often difficult and the pace hot.
I was wet through from the hard work, and so winded that further effort
seemed almost impossible; but we plodded away--the picture of the koodoo
bull luring me on, and Jock content with any chase. Without him the
spoor would have been lost long before; it was in many places too faint
and scattered for me to follow, but he would sniff about quietly, and,
by his contented looks back at me and brisk wagging of that stumpy tail,
show that he was on it again, and off we would go on another tired
straggling trot. But at last even his help was not enough: we had come
to the end of the chase, and not a spoor, scratch, or sign of any sort
was to be seen.
Time had passed unnoticed, and it was only when it became clear that
further search would be quite useless that I looked at my watch and
found it was nearly five o'clock. That was rather a shock, for it
seemed reasonable to think that, as we had been out for pretty nearly
two hours and going fast for most of the time, it would take almost as
long to get back again.
I had not once noticed our direction or looked at the sun, yet when it
came to making for camp again the idea of losing the way never occurred
to me. I had not the slightest doubt about the way we had come, and it
seemed the natural thing to go back the same way.
A short distance from where we finally gave up the chase there was a
rise crowned by some good-sized rocks and bare of trees; it was not high
enough to be fairly called a kopje, but I climbed it on chance of
getting a view of the surrounding country--to see, if possible, how far
we had come. The rise was not sufficient, however, to give a view;
there was nothing to be seen, and I sat down on the highest rock to rest
for a few minutes and smoke a cigarette.
It is over twenty years since that day, but that cigarette is not
forgotten, and the little rise where we rested is still, to me,
Cigarette Kopje. I was so thoroughly wet from the heat and hard work
that the matches in the breast pocket of my shirt were all damp, and the
heads came off most of them before one was gently coaxed into giving a
light. Five minutes rest was enough. We both wanted a drink, but there
was no time then to hunt for water in such a dry part as that, so off we
started for camp and jogged along for a good time, perhaps half an hour.
Then little by little I began to feel some uncertainty about the way
and to look about from side to side for reminders.
The start back had been easy enough: that part of the ground where we
had lost the spoor had been gone over very thoroughly and every object
was familiar; but further back, where we had followed the spoor at a
trot for long stretches and I had hardly raised my eyes from the ground
before me, it was a very different matter. I forgot all about those
long stretches in which nothing had been noticed except the koodoo
spoor, and was unconsciously looking out for things in regular
succession which we had passed at quite long intervals. Of course, they
were not to be found, but I kept on looking out for them--first feeling
annoyed, then puzzled, then worried. Something had gone wrong, and we
were not going back on our old tracks. Several times I looked about for
the koodoo spoor as a guide; but it might be anywhere over a width of a
hundred yards, and it seemed waste of precious time to search the dry
grass-grown and leaf-strewn ground for that.
At the first puzzled stop I tried to recall some of the more noticeable
things we had passed during the chase. There were two flat-topped
mimosas, looking like great rustic tables on a lawn, and we had passed
between them; there was a large ant-heap, with a twisty top like a
crooked mud chimney, behind which the koodoo bull had calmly stood
watching us approach; then a marula tree with a fork like a giant
catapult stick; and so on with a score of other things, all coming
readily to mind.
That was what put me hopelessly wrong. I began to look for particular
objects instead of taking one direction and keeping to it. Whenever a
flat-topped thorn, a quaint ant-heap, a patch of tambookie grass, or a
forked marula came in sight, I would turn off to see if they were the
same we had passed coming out. It was hopeless folly, of course; for in
that country there were hundreds and thousands of such things all
looking very much alike, and you could walk yourself to death zigzagging
about from one to another and never get any nearer home: when it comes
to doing that sort of thing your judgment is gone and you have lost your
head; and the worst of it is you do not know it and would not believe it
if any one could tell you so. I did not know it; but it was
nevertheless the fact.
As the sun sank lower I hurried on faster, but never long in one line--
always turning this way and that to search for the particular marks I
had in mind. At last we came to four trees in a line, and my heart gave
a great jump, for these we had certainly passed before. In order to
make quite sure I hunted for koodoo spoor; there was none to be seen,
but on an old molehill there was the single print of a dog's foot. "Ha,
Jock's!" I exclaimed aloud; and Jock himself at the sound of his name
stepped up briskly and sniffed at his own spoor. Close beside it there
was the clear mark of a heeled boot, and there were others further on.
There was no doubt about it, they were Jock's and mine, and I could have
given a whoop of delight; but a chilly feeling came over me when I
realised that the footprints were _leading the same way as we were
going_, instead of the opposite way. What on earth did it mean?
I laid the rifle down and sat on an old stump to think it out, and after
puzzling over it for some minutes came to the conclusion that by some
stupid blunder I must have turned round somewhere and followed the line
of the koodoo, instead of going back on it. The only thing to be done
was to right about face and go faster than ever; but, bad as the
disappointment was, it was a certain consolation to know that we were on
the track at last. That at any rate was a certainty; for, besides the
footprints, the general appearance of the country and many individual
features were perfectly familiar, now that I took a good look at them
from this point.
At that moment I had not a shadow of doubt about the way--no more,
indeed, than if we had been on the road itself: no suspicion of the
truth occurred to me; yet the simple fact is we were not then on the
koodoo trail at all, but, having made a complete circle, had come on to
our own trail at the molehill and were now doing the circle the second
time--but the reverse way now.
The map on the opposite page is an attempt to show what happened; the
details are of course only guesswork, but the general idea is correct.
The koodoo themselves had moved in a rough circle and in the first
attempt to return to the waggons I had started back on their trail but
must have turned aside somewhere, and after that, by dodging about
looking for special landmarks, have made a complete circle. Thus we
eventually came back to the track on which we had started for home, and
the things that then looked so convincingly familiar were things seen
during the first attempt to return, and not, as I supposed, landmarks on
the original koodoo trail. Jock's footprints in the molehill were only
a few hundred yards from the Cigarette Kopje and about the same distance
from where we had lost the koodoo spoor; and we were, at that moment,
actually within a mile of the waggons.
It seems incredible that one could be so near and not see or understand.
Why should one walk in circles instead of taking a fairly straight
line? How was it possible to pass Cigarette Kopje and not recognise it,
for I must have gone within fifty yards or less of it? As for not
seeing things, the answer is that the bush does not allow you to see
much: the waggons, for instance, might as well have been a hundred miles
away. As for Cigarette Kop--things do not look the same unless seen
from the same point; moreover there are heaps of things easily visible
which you will never see at all because you are looking only for
something else: you carry a preconceived idea, a sort of picture in your
eye, and everything that does not fit in with that is not noticed--not
even seen. As for walking in circles, it is my belief that most people,
just like most horses, have a natural leaning or tendency towards one
side or the other, and unless checked unconsciously indulge it. When
riding in the veld, or any open country, you will notice that some
horses will want to take any turn off to the right, others always go to
the left, and only very few keep straight on. When out walking you will
find that some people cannot walk on your right hand without coming
across your front or working you into the gutter; others `mule' you from
the left. Get them out in open country, walk briskly, and talk; then
give way a little each time they bump you, and in a very little while
you will have done the circle. If you have this tendency in the
Bushveld, where you cannot see any distant object to make for as a goal,
any obstacle straight in front of you throws you off to the side you
incline to; any openings in the trees which look like avenues or easy
ways draw you; and between any two of them you will always choose the
one on your favourite side. Finally, a little knowledge is a dangerous
thing in the veld, as elsewhere. When you know enough to recognise
marks without being able to identify or locate them--that is, when you
know you have seen them before but are not sure of the when and the
where--goodness only knows what conclusion you will come to or what you
will do.
I had passed Cigarette Kopje, it's true; but when coming towards it from
a new side it must have looked quite different; and besides that, I had
not been expecting it, not looking for it, not even thinking of it--had
indeed said good-bye to it for ever. When we turned back at the
molehill, beginning to do the circle for the second time, we must have
passed quite close to Cigarette Kopje again, but again it was from a
different opening in the bush, and this time I had thought of nothing
and seen nothing except the things I picked out and recognised as we
hurried along. To my half-opened beginner's eyes these things were
familiar: we had passed them before; that seemed to be good enough: it
must be right; so on we went, simply doing the same circle a second
time, but this time the reverse way. The length of my shadow stretching
out before me as we started from the molehill was a reminder of the need
for haste, and we set off at a smart double. A glance back every few
minutes to make sure that we were returning the way we had come was
enough, and on we sped, confident for my part that we, were securely on
the line of the koodoo and going straight for the waggons.
It is very difficult to say how long this lasted before once more a
horrible doubt arose. It was when we had done half the circle that I
was pulled up as if struck in the face: the setting sun shining into my
eyes as we crossed an open space stopped me; for, as the bright
gold-dust light of the sunset met me full, I remembered that it was my
long shadow _in front_ of me as we started from the molehill that had
urged me to hurry on. We had started due east: we were going dead west!
What on earth was wrong? There were the trees and spaces we had
passed, a blackened stump, an ant-bear hole; all familiar. What then
was the meaning of it? Was it only a temporary swerve? No! I tested
that by pushing on further along the track we were following, and it
held steadily to the west. Was it then all imagination about having
been there before? No, that was absurd! And yet--and yet, as I went
on, no longer trotting and full of hope but walking heavily and weighted
with doubt, the feeling of uncertainty grew until I really did not know
whether the familiar-looking objects and scenes were indeed old
acquaintances or merely imagination playing tricks in a country where
every style and sample was copied a thousand times over.
A few minutes later I again caught sight of the sunset glow--it was on
my direct right: it meant that the trail had taken another turn, while I
could have sworn we were holding a course straight as an arrow. It was
all a hopeless tangle. I was lost then--and knew it. It was not the
dread of a night out in the bush--for after many months of roughing it,
that had no great terrors for me--but the helpless feeling of being lost
and the anxiety and uncertainty about finding the road again, that
gnawed at me and made me feel tucked-up and drawn. I wondered when they
would begin to look for me, if they would light big fires and fire
shots, and if it would be possible to see or hear the signals. The
light would not last much longer; the dimness, the silence, and the
hateful doubts about the trail made it more and more difficult to
recognise the line; so I thought it was time to fire a signal shot.
There was no answer. It was silly to hope for one; for even if it had
been heard they would only have thought that I was shooting at
something. Yet the clinging to hope was so strong that every twenty
yards or so I stopped to listen for a reply; and when, after what seemed
an eternity, none came, I fired another. When you shoot in the
excitement of the chase the noise of the report does not strike you as
anything out of the way; but a signal shot when you are alone and lost
seems to fill the world with sound and to shake the earth itself. It
has a most chilling effect, and the feeling of loneliness becomes acute
as the echoes die away and still no answer comes.
Another short spell of tip-toe walking and intent listening, and then it
came to me that one shot as a signal was useless; I should have fired
more and at regular intervals, like minute-guns at sea. I felt in my
pocket: there were only four cartridges there and one in the rifle;
there was night before me, with the wolves and the lions; there was the
food for to-morrow, and perhaps more than to-morrow! There could be no
minute-guns: two shots were all that could be spared, and I looked about
for some high and open ground where the sound would travel far and wide.
On ahead of us to the right the trees seemed fewer and the light
stronger; and there I came upon some rising ground bare of bush. It was
not much for my purpose, but it was higher than the rest and quite open,
and there were some rocks scattered about the top. The same old feeling
of mixed remembrance and doubt came over me as we climbed it: it looked
familiar and yet different. Was it memory or imagination?
But there was no time for wonderings. From the biggest rock, which was
only waist high, I fired off two of my precious cartridges, and stood
like a statue listening for the reply. The silence seemed worse than
before: the birds had gone to roost; even the flies had disappeared;
there was no sound at all but the beat of my own heart and Jock's
panting breath.
There were three cartridges and a few damp matches left. There was no
sun to dry them now, but I laid them out carefully on the smooth warm
rock, and hoped that one at least would serve to light our camp fire.
There was no time to waste: while the light lasted I had to drag up wood
for the fire and pick a place for the camp--somewhere where the rocks
behind and the fire in front would shelter us from the lions and hyenas,
and where I could watch and listen for signals in the night.
There was plenty of wood near by, and thinking anxiously of the damp
matches I looked about for dry tindery grass so that any spark would
give a start for the fire. As I stooped to look for the grass I came on
a patch of bare ground between the scattered tufts, and in the middle of
it there lay a half-burnt match; and such a flood of relief and hope
surged up that my heart beat up in my throat. Where there were matches
there had been men! We were not in the wilds, then, where white men
seldom went--not off the beaten track: perhaps not far from the road
itself.
You must experience it to know what it meant at that moment. It drew me
on to look for more! A yard away I found the burnt end of a cigarette;
and before there was time to realise why that should seem queer, I came
on eight or ten matches with their heads knocked off.
For a moment things seemed to go round and round. I sat down with my
back against the rock and a funny choky feeling in my throat. I knew
they were my matches and cigarette, and that we were exactly where we
had started from hours before, when we gave up the chase of tie koodoo.
I began to understand things then: why places and landmarks seemed
familiar; why Jock's spoor in the molehill had pointed the wrong way;
why my shadow was in front and behind and beside me in turns. We had
been going round in a circle. I jumped up and looked about me with a
fresh light; and it was all clear as noonday then. Why, this was the
fourth time we had been on or close to some part of this same rise that
day, each time within fifty yards of the same place; it was the second
time I had sat on that very rock. And there was nothing odd or
remarkable about that either, for each time I had been looking for the
highest point to spy from and had naturally picked the rock-topped rise;
and I had not recognised it, only because we came upon it from different
sides each time and I was thinking of other things all the while.
All at once it seemed as if my eyes were opened and all was clear at
last. I knew what to do: just make the best of it for the night; listen
for shots and watch for fires; and if by morning no help came in that
way, then strike a line due south for the road and follow it up until we
found the waggons. It might take all day or even more, but we were sure
of water that way and one could do it. The relief of really
understanding was so great that the thought of a night out no longer
worried me.
There was enough wood gathered, and I stretched out on the grass to rest
as there was nothing else to do. We were both tired out, hot, dusty,
and very very thirsty; but it was too late to hunt for water then. I
was lying on my side chewing a grass stem, and Jock lay down in front of
me a couple of feet away. It was a habit of his: he liked to watch my
face, and often when I rolled over to ease one side and lie on the other
he would get up when he found my back turned to him and come round
deliberately to the other side and sling himself down in front of me
again. There he would lie with his hind legs sprawled on one side, his
front legs straight out, and his head resting on his paws. He would lie
like that without a move, his little dark eyes fixed on mine all the
time until the stillness and the rest made him sleepy, and he would
blink and blink, like a drowsy child, fighting against sleep until it
beat him; and then--one long-drawn breath as he rolled gently over on
his side, and Jock was away in Snoozeland.
In the loneliness of that evening I looked into his steadfast resolute
face with its darker muzzle and bright faithful eyes that looked so soft
and brown when there was nothing to do but got so beady black when it
came to fighting. I felt very friendly to the comrade who was little
more than a puppy still; and he seemed to feel something too; for as I
lay there chewing the straw and looking at him, he stirred his stump of
a tail in the dust an inch or so from time to time to let me know that
he understood all about it and that it was all right as long as we were
together.
But an interruption came. Jock suddenly switched up his head, put it a
bit sideways as a man would do, listening over his shoulder with his
nose rather up in the air. I watched him, and thinking that it was
probably only a buck out to feed in the cool of the evening, I tickled
his nose with the long straw, saying, "No good, old chap; only three
cartridges left. We must keep them."
No dog likes to have his nose tickled: it makes them sneeze; and many
dogs get quite offended, because it hurts their dignity. Jock was not
offended, but he got up and, as if to show me that I was frivolous and
not attending properly to business, turned away from me and with his
ears cocked began to listen again.
He was standing slightly in front of me and I happened to notice his
tail: it was not moving; it was drooping slightly and perfectly still,
and he kept it like that as he stepped quietly forward on to another
sloping rock overlooking a side where we had not yet been. Evidently
there was something there, but he did not know what, and he wanted to
find out.
I watched him, much amused by his calm businesslike manner. He walked
to the edge of the rock and looked out: for a few minutes he stood
stock-still with his ears cocked and his tail motionless; then his ears
dropped and his tail wagged gently from side to side.
Something--an instinct or sympathy quickened by the day's experience,
that I had never quite known before--taught me to understand, and I
jumped up, thinking, "He sees something that he knows: he is pleased."
As I walked over to him, he looked back at me with his mouth open and
tongue out, his ears still down and tail wagging--he was smiling all
over, in his own way. I looked out over his head, and there, about
three hundred yards off, were the oxen peacefully grazing and the herd
boy in his red coat lounging along behind them.
Shame at losing myself and dread of the others' chaff kept me very
quiet, and all they knew for many months was that we had had a long
fruitless chase after koodoo and hard work to get back in time.
I had had my lesson, and did not require to have it rubbed in and be
roasted as Buggins had been. Only Jock and I knew all about it; but
once or twice there were anxious nervous moments when it looked as if we
were not the only ones in the secret. The big Zulu driver, Jim
Makokel'--always interested in hunting and all that concerned Jock--
asked me as we were inspanning what I had fired the last two shots at;
and as I pretended not to hear or to notice the question, he went on to
say how he had told the other boys that it must have been a klipspringer
on a high rock or a monkey or a bird because the bullets had whistled
over the waggons. I told him to inspan and not talk so much, and moved
round to the other side of the waggon.
That night I slept hard, but woke up once dreaming that several lions
were looking down at me from the top of a big flat rock and Jock was
keeping them off.
Jock was in his usual place beside me, lying against my blankets. I
gave him an extra pat for the dream, thinking, "Good old boy; we know
all about it, you and I, and we're not going to tell. But we've learned
some things that we won't forget." And as I dropped off to sleep again
I felt a few feeble sleepy pats against my leg, and knew it was Jock's
tail wagging "Good night."