Not all our days were spent in excitement--far far from it. For six or
seven months the rains were too heavy, the heat too great, the grass too
rank, and the fever too bad in the Bushveld for any one to do any good
there; so that for more than half of the year we had no hunting to speak
of, as there was not much to be done above the Berg. But even during
the hunting season there were many off-days and long spells when we
never fired a shot. The work with the waggons was hard when we had full
loads, the trekking slow and at night, so that there was always
something to do in the daytime--repairs to be done, oxen to be doctored,
grass and water to be looked for, and so on; and we had to make up sleep
when we could. Even when the sport was good and the bag satisfactory
there was usually nothing new to tell about it. So Jock and I had many
a long spell when there was no hunting, many a bad day when we worked
hard but had no sport, and many a good day when we got what we were
after and nothing happened that would interest any one else. Every hunt
was exciting and interesting for us, even those in which we got nothing;
indeed some of the most interesting were those in which the worst
disappointments occurred, when after hard work and long chases the game
escaped us. To tell all that happened would be to tell the same old
story many times over; but indeed, it would not be possible to tell all,
for there were some things--the most interesting of all, perhaps--which
only Jock knew.
After the fight with the duiker there was never any doubt as to what he
would do if allowed to follow up a wounded animal. It made a deal of
difference in the hunting to know that he could be trusted to find it
and hold on or bay it until I could get up. The bush was so thick that
it was not possible to see more than a very few hundred yards at best,
and the country was so dry and rough that if a wounded animal once got
out of sight only an expert tracker had any chance of finding it again.
Jock soon showed himself to be better than the best of trackers, for
besides never losing the trail he would either pull down the buck or, if
too big for that, attack and worry even the biggest of them to such an
extent that they would have to keep turning on him to protect themselves
and thus give me the chance to catch up.
But the first result of my confidence in him was some perfectly hopeless
chases. It is natural enough to give oneself the benefit of any doubt;
the enthusiastic beginner always does so, and in his case the lack of
experience often creates a doubt where none should have existed; and the
doubt is often very welcome, helping him out with explanations of the
unflattering facts. For the listener it is, at best and worst, only
amusing or tiresome; but for the person concerned it is different--for,
as Rocky said, `It don't fool any one worth speakin' of 'cept yerself.'
And `there's the rub.' Whenever a bullet struck with a thud, and no
dust appeared to show that it had hit the ground, I thought that it must
have wounded the buck; and once you get the idea that the buck is hit,
all sorts of reasons appear in support of it. There is hardly anything
that the buck can do which does not seem to you to prove that it is
wounded. It bounds into the air, races off suddenly, or goes away quite
slowly; it switches its tail or shakes its head; it stops to look back,
or does not stop at all; the spoor looks awkward and scrappy; the rust
on the grass looks like dry blood. If you start with a theory instead
of weighing the evidence all these things will help to prove that
theory: they will, in fact, mean exactly what you want them to mean.
You `put up a job on yerself'--to quote Rocky again--and with the sweat
of your brow and vexation of spirit you have to work that job out.
Poor old Jock had a few hard chases after animals which I thought were
wounded but were not hit at all--not many, however, for he soon got hold
of the right idea and was a better judge than his master. He went off
the instant he was sent, but if there was nothing wounded--that is, if
he could not pick up a `blood spoor'--he would soon show it by casting
across the trail, instead of following hard on it; and I knew then there
was nothing in it. Often he would come back of his own accord, and
there was something quite peculiar in his look when he returned from
these wild-goose chases that seemed to say, "No good: you were quite
wrong. You missed the whole lot of them." He would come up to me with
his mouth wide-open and tongue out, a bit blown, and stand still with
his front legs wide apart, looking up at me with that nothing-in-it sort
of look in his eyes and not a movement in his ears or tail and never a
turn of his head to show the least interest in anything else. I got to
know that look quite well; and to me it meant, "Well, that job was a
failure--finished and done for. Now is there anything else you can
think of?"
What always seemed to me so curious and full of meaning was that he
never once looked back in the direction of the unwounded game, but
seemed to put them out of his mind altogether as of no further interest.
It was very different when he got on to the trail of a wounded buck and
I had to call him off, as was sometimes necessary when the chase looked
hopeless or it was too late to go further. He would obey, of course--no
amount of excitement made him forget that; but he would follow me in a
sort of sideways trot, looking back over his shoulder all the time, and
whenever there was a stop, turning right round and staring intently in
the direction of the game with his little tail moving steadily from side
to side and his hind legs crouched as if ready to spring off the instant
he got permission.
Twice I thought he was lost for ever through following wounded game.
The first occasion was also the first time that we got among the impala
and saw them in numbers. There is no more beautiful and fascinating
sight than that of a troop of impala or springbuck really on the move
and jumping in earnest. The height and distance that they clear is
simply incredible. The impala's greater size and its delicate spiral
horns give it a special distinction; the springbuck's brilliant white
and red, and the divided crest which fans out along the spine when it is
excited, are unique. But who can say which of the many beautiful
antelopes is the most beautiful? The oldest hunter will tell you of
first one, then another, and then another, as they come to mind, just as
he saw them in some supreme unforgettable moment; and each at that
moment has seemed quite the most beautiful animal in the world.
It is when they are jumping that the impala are seen at their best. No
one knows what they really can do, for there are no fences in their
country by which to judge or guess, and as they run in herds it is
practically impossible ever to find the take-off or landing-place of any
single animal. Once when hunting along the Wenhla Mohali River we
managed to turn seven of them into an old run ending in a rocky gorge;
but suspecting danger they would not face the natural outlet, and
turning up the slope cleared a barrier of thick thorn scrub and escaped.
When we looked at the place afterwards we found that the bushes were
nine feet high. We were not near enough to see whether they touched the
tops or cleared them; all we were sure of was that they did not hesitate
for a second to face a jump nine feet high at the top of a sharp rise,
and that all seven did it in follow-my-leader order with the most
perfect ease and grace.
Every hunter has seen a whole troop, old and young, following the
example of the leader, clear a road or donga twenty feet wide,
apparently in an effortless stride. It is a fine sight, and the steady
stream of buck makes an arch of red and white bodies over the road
looking like the curve of a great wave. You stand and watch in
speechless admiration; and the first gasp at a glorious leap is followed
by steady silent wonder at the regularity of the numbers. Then suddenly
you see one animal--for no apparent reason: it may be fright or it may
be frolic--take off away back behind the others, shoot up, and sail high
above the arch of all the rest, and with head erect and feet comfortably
gathered, land far beyond them--the difference between ease and effort,
and oh! the perfect grace of both! Something is wrung from you--a word,
a gasp--and you stand breathless with wonder and admiration until the
last one is gone. You have forgotten to shoot; but they have left you
something better than a trophy, something which time will only glorify--
a picture that in daylight or in dark will fill your mind whenever you
hear the name Impala.
Something of this I carried away from my first experience among them.
There were a few minutes of complete bewilderment, a scene of the
wildest confusion, and flashes of incident that go to make a great
picture which it is impossible to forget. But then there followed many
hours of keen anxiety when I believed that Jock was gone for ever; and
it was long before that day found its place in the gallery of happy
memories.
We had gone out after breakfast, striking well away from the main road
until we got among the thicker thorns where there was any amount of
fresh spoor and we were quite certain to find a troop sooner or later.
The day was so still, the ground so dry, and the bush so thick that the
chances were the game would hear us before we could get near enough to
see them. Several times I heard sounds of rustling bush or feet
cantering away: something had heard us and made off unseen; so I dropped
down into the sandy bed of a dry donga and used it as a stalking trench.
From this it was easy enough to have a good look around every hundred
yards or so without risk of being heard or seen. We had been going
along cautiously in this way for some time when, peering over the bank,
I spied a single impala half hidden by a scraggy bush. It seemed queer
that there should be only one, as their habit is to move in troops; but
there was nothing else to be seen; indeed it was only the flicker of an
ear on this one that had caught my eye. Nothing else in the land moved.
Jock climbed the bank also, following so closely that he bumped against
my heels, and when I lay flat actually crawled over my legs to get up
beside me and see what was on. Little by little he got into the way of
imitating all I did, so that after a while it was hardly necessary to
say a word or make a sign to him. He lay down beside me and raised his
head to look just as he saw me do. He was all excitement, trembling
like a wet spaniel on a cold day, and instead of looking steadily at the
impala as I was doing and as he usually did, he was looking here there
and everywhere; it seemed almost as if he was looking at things--not for
them. It was my comfortable belief at the moment that he had not yet
spotted the buck, but was looking about anxiously to find out what was
interesting me. It turned out, as usual, that he had seen a great deal
more than his master had.
The stalking looked very easy, as a few yards further up the donga there
was excellent cover in some dense thorns, behind which we could walk
boldly across open ground to within easy range of the buck and get a
clear shot. We reached the cover all right, but I had not taken three
steps into the open space beyond before there was a rushing and
scrambling on every side of me. The place was a whirlpool of racing and
plunging impala; they came from every side and went in every direction
as though caught suddenly in an enclosure and, mad with fear and
bewilderment, were trying to find a way out. How many there were it was
quite impossible to say: the bush was alive with them; and the dust they
kicked up, the noise of their feet, their curious sneezy snorts, and
their wild confusion completely bewildered me. Not one stood still.
Never for a moment could I see any single animal clearly enough or long
enough to fire at it; another would cross it; a bush would cover it as I
aimed; or it would leap into the air, clearing bushes, bucks and
everything in its way, and disappear again in the moving mass. They
seemed to me to whirl like leaves in a wind eddy: my eyes could not
follow them and my brain swam as I looked.
It was a hot day; there was no breeze at all; and probably the herd had
been resting after their morning feed and drink when we came upon them.
By creeping up along the donga we had managed to get unobserved right
into the middle of the dozing herd, so they were literally on every side
of us. At times it looked as if they were bound to stampede over us and
simply trample us down in their numbers; for in their panic they saw
nothing, and not one appeared to know what or where the danger was.
Time and again, as for part of a second I singled one out and tried to
aim, others would come racing straight for us, compelling me to switch
round to face them, only to find them swerve with a dart or a mighty
bound when within a few paces of me.
What Jock was doing during that time I do not know. It was all such a
whirl of excitement and confusion that there are only a few clear
impressions left on my mind. One is of a buck coming through the air
right at me, jumping over the backs of two others racing across my
front. I can see now the sudden wriggle of its body and the look of
terror in its eyes when it saw me and realised that it was going to land
almost at my feet. I tried to jump aside, but it was not necessary:
with one touch on the ground it shot slantingly past me like a ricochet
bullet. Another picture that always comes back is that of a splendid
ram clearing the first of the dense thorn bushes that were to have been
my cover in stalking. He flew over it outlined against the sky in the
easiest most graceful and most perfect curve imaginable. It came back
to me afterwards that he was eight or ten yards from me, and yet I had
to look up into the sky to see his white chest and gracefully gathered
feet as he cleared the thorn bush like a soaring bird.
One shot, out of three or four fired in desperation as they were melting
away, hit something; the unmistakable thud of the bullet told me so.
That time it was the real thing, and when you hear the real thing you
cannot mistake it. The wounded animal went off with the rest and I
followed, with Jock ahead of me hot on the trail. A hundred yards
further on where Jock with his nose to the ground had raced along
between some low stones and a marula tree I came to a stop--bush all
round me, not a living thing in sight, and all as silent as the grave.
On one of the smooth hot stones there was a big drop of blood, and a few
yards on I found a couple more. Here and there along the spoor there
were smears on the long yellow grass, and it was clear enough, judging
by the height of the blood-marks from the ground, that the impala was
wounded in the body--probably far back, as there were no frothy bubbles
to show a lung shot. I knew that it would be a long chase unless Jock
could head the buck off and bay it; but unless he could do this at once,
he was so silent in his work that there was little chance of finding
him. The trail became more and more difficult to follow; the blood was
less frequent, and the hot sun dried it so quickly that it was more than
I could do to pick it out from the red streaks on the grass and
many-coloured leaves. So I gave it up and sat down to smoke and wait.
Half an hour passed, and still no Jock. Then I wandered about whistling
and calling for him--calling until the sound of my own voice became
quite uncanny, the only sound in an immense silence. Two hours passed
in useless calling and listening, searching and waiting, and then I gave
it up altogether and made back for the waggons, trying to hope against
my real conviction that Jock had struck the road somewhere and had
followed it to the outspan, instead of coming back on his own trail
through the bush to me.
But there was no Jock at the waggons; and my heart sank, although I was
not surprised. It was nearly four hours since he had disappeared, and
it was as sure as anything could be that something extraordinary must
have happened or he would have come back to me long before this. No one
at the waggons had seen him since we started out together; and there was
nothing to be done but to wait and see what would happen. It was
perfectly useless to look for him: if alive and well, he was better able
to find his way than the best tracker that ever lived; if dead or
injured and unable to move, there was not one chance in a million of
finding him.
There was only one kaffir whom Jock would take any notice of or would
allow to touch him--a great big Zulu named Jim Makokel'. Jim was one of
the real fighting Zulu breed; and the pride he took in Jock, and the
sort of partnership that he claimed in tastes, disposition and exploits,
began the day Jock fought the table-leg and grew stronger and stronger
to the end. Jim became Jock's devoted champion, and more than once, as
will be seen, showed that he would face man or beast to stand by him
when he needed help.
This day when I returned to the waggons Jim was sitting with the other
drivers in the group round the big pot of porridge. I saw him give one
quick look my way and heard him say sharply to the others, "Where is the
dog? Where is Jock?" He stood there looking at me with a big wooden
spoon full of porridge stopped on the way to his mouth. In a few
minutes they all knew what had happened; the other boys took it calmly,
saying composedly that the dog would find his way back. But Jim was not
calm: it was not his nature. At one moment he would agree with them,
swamping them with a flood of reasons why Jock, the best dog in the
world, would be sure to come back; and the next--hot with restless
excitement--would picture all that the dog might have been doing and all
that he might still have to face, and then break off to proclaim loudly
that every one ought to go out and hunt for him. Jim was not practical
or reasonable--he was too excitable for that; but he was very loyal, and
it was his way to show his feelings by doing something--generally and
preferably by fighting some one. Knowing only too well how useless it
would be to search for Jock, I lay down under the waggon to rest and
wait.
After half an hour of this Jim could restrain himself no longer. He
came over to where I lay and with a look of severe disapproval and
barely controlled indignation, asked me for a gun, saying that he
himself meant to go out and look for Jock. It would be nearer the mark
to say that he demanded a gun. He was so genuinely anxious and so
indignant at what he considered my indifference that it was impossible
to be angry; and I let him talk away to me and at me in his exciting
bullying way. He would take no answer and listen to no reason; so
finally to keep him quiet I gave him the shot gun, and off he went,
muttering his opinions of every one else--a great springy striding
picture of fierce resolution.
He came back nearly three hours later, silent, morose, hot and dusty.
He put the gun down beside me without a word--just a click of disgust;
and as he strode across to his waggon, called roughly to one of the
drivers for the drinking water. Lifting the bucket to his mouth he
drank like an ox and slammed it down again without a word of thanks;
then sat down in the shade of the waggon, filled his pipe, and smoked in
silence.
The trekking hour came and passed; but we did not move. The sun went
down, and in the quiet of the evening we heard the first jackal's
yapping--the first warning of the night. There were still lions and
tigers in those parts, and any number of hyenas and wild dogs, and the
darker it grew and the more I thought of it, the more hopeless seemed
Jock's chance of getting through a night in the bush trying to work his
way back to the waggons.
It was almost dark when I was startled by a yell from Jim Makokel', and
looking round, saw him bound out into the road shouting, "He has come,
he has come! What did I tell you?" He ran out to Jock, stooping to pat
and talk to him, and then in a lower voice and with growing excitement
went on rapidly, "See the blood! See it! He has fought: he has killed!
Dog of all dogs! Jock, Jock!" and his savage song of triumph broke off
in a burst of rough tenderness, and he called the dog's name five or six
times with every note of affection and welcome in his deep voice. Jock
took no notice of Jim's dancing out to meet him, nor of his shouts,
endearments and antics; slowing his tired trot down to a walk, he came
straight on to me, flickered his ears a bit, wagged his tail cordially,
and gave my hand a splashy lick as I patted him. Then he turned round
in the direction he had just come from, looked steadily out, cocked his
ears well up, and moved his tail slowly from side to side. For the next
half-hour or so he kept repeating this action every few minutes; but
even without that I knew that it had been no wild-goose chase, and that
miles away in the bush there was something lying dead which he could
show me if I would but follow him back again to see.
What had happened in the eight hours since he had dashed off in pursuit
can only be guessed. That he had pulled down the impala and killed it
seemed certain--and what a chase and what a fight it must have been to
take all that time! The buck could not have been so badly wounded in
the body as to be disabled or it would have died in far less time than
that: then, what a fight it must have been to kill an animal six or
eight times his own weight and armed with such horns and hoofs! But was
it only the impala? or had the hyenas and wild dogs followed up the
trail, as they so often do, and did Jock have to fight his way through
them too?
He was hollow-flanked and empty, parched with thirst, and so blown that
his breath still caught in suffocating chokes. He was covered with
blood and sand; his beautiful golden coat was dark and stained; his
white front had disappeared; and there on his chest and throat, on his
jaws and ears, down his front legs even to the toes, the blood was caked
on him--mostly black and dried but some still red and sticky. He was a
little lame in one fore leg, but there was no cut or swelling to show
the cause. There was only one mark to be seen: over his right eye there
was a bluish line where the hair had been shaved off clean, leaving the
skin smooth and unbroken. What did it? Was it horn, hoof, tooth, or--
what? Only Jock knew.
Hovering round and over me, pacing backwards and forwards between the
waggons like a caged animal, Jim, growing more and more excited, filled
the air with his talk his shouts and savage song. Wanting to help, but
always in the way, ordering and thrusting the other boys here and there,
he worked himself up into a wild frenzy: the Zulu fighting blood on fire
and he `saw red' everywhere.
I called for water. "Water!" roared Jim, "bring water"; and glaring
round he made a spring--stick in hand--at the nearest kaffir. The boy
fled in terror, with Jim after him for a few paces, and brought a bucket
of water. Jim snatched it from him and with a resounding thump on the
ribs sent the unlucky kaffir sprawling on the ground. Jock took the
water in great gulpy bites broken by pauses to get his breath again; and
Jim paced up and down--talking, talking, talking! Talking to me, to the
others, to the kaffirs, to Jock, to the world at large, to the heavens,
and to the dead. His eyes glared like a wild beast's and gradually
little seams of froth gathered in the corners of his mouth as he poured
out his cataract of words, telling of all Jock had done and might have
done and would yet do; comparing him with the fighting heroes of his own
race, and wandering off into vivid recitals of single episodes and great
battles; seizing his sticks, shouting his war cries, and going through
all the mimicry of fight with the wild frenzy of one possessed. Time
after time I called him and tried to quiet him; but he was beyond
control.
Once before he had broken out like this. I had asked him something
about the Zulu war; and that had started a flood of memories and
excitement. In the midst of some description I asked why they killed
the children; and he turned his glaring eyes on me a and said, "Inkos,
you are my Inkos; but you are white. If we fight to-morrow, I will kill
you. You are good to me, you have saved me; but if our own king says
`Kill!' we kill! We see red; we kill all that lives. I must kill you,
your wife, your mother, your children, your horses, your oxen, your dog,
the fowls that run with the waggons--all that lives I kill. The blood
must run." And I believed him; for that was the Zulu fighting spirit.
So this time I knew it was useless to order or to talk: he was beyond
control, and the fit must run its course.
The night closed in and there was quiet once more. The flames of the
camp fires had died down; the big thorn logs had burnt into glowing
coals like the pink crisp hearts of giant water-melons; Jock lay
sleeping, tired out, but even in his sleep came little spells of panting
now and then, like the after-sobs of a child that has cried itself to
sleep; we lay rolled in our blankets, and no sound came from where the
kaffirs slept. But Jim--only Jim--sat on his rough three-legged stool,
elbows on knees and hands clasped together, staring intently into the
coals. The fit worked slowly off, and his excitement died gradually
away; now and then there was a fresh burst, but always milder and at
longer intervals, as you may see it in a dying fire or at the end of a
great storm; slowly but surely he subsided until at last there were only
occasional mutterings of "Ow, Jock!" followed by the Zulu click, the
expressive shake of the head, and that appreciative half grunt, half
chuckle, by which they pay tribute to what seems truly wonderful. He
wanted no sleep that night: he sat on, waiting for the morning trek,
staring into the red coals, and thinking of the bygone glories of his
race in the days of the mighty Chaka.
That was Jim, when the fit was on him--transported by some trifling and
unforeseen incident from the hum-drum of the road to the life he once
had lived with splendid recklessness.