Mungo was not a perfect mount, but he was a great improvement on
Snowball; he had a wretched walk, and led almost as badly as his
predecessor; but this did not matter so much because he could be driven
like a pack donkey and relied on not to play pranks. In a gallop after
game he was much faster than Snowball, having a wonderfully long stride
for so low a pony.
A horse made a good deal of difference in the hunting in many ways, not
the least of which was that some sort of excursion was possible on most
days. One could go further in the time available and, even if delayed,
still be pretty sure of catching up to the waggons without much
difficulty.
Sometimes after a long night's trekking I would start off after
breakfast for some `likely' spot, off-saddle there in a shady place,
sleep during the heat of the day, and after a billy of tea start hunting
towards the waggons in the afternoon.
It was in such a spot on the Komati River, a couple of hundred yards
from the bank, that on one occasion I settled down to make up lost
ground in the matter of sleep, and with Mungo knee-haltered in good
grass and Jock beside me, I lay flat on my back with hat covering my
eyes and was soon comfortably asleep.
The sleep had lasted a couple of hours when I began to dream that it was
raining and woke up in the belief that a hail storm--following the
rain--was just breaking over me. I started up to find all just as it
had been, and the sunlight beyond the big tree so glaring as to make the
eyes ache. Through half-closed lids I saw Mungo lying down asleep and
made out Jock standing some yards away quietly watching me.
With a yawn and stretch I lay back again; sleep was over but a good lazy
rest was welcome: it had been earned, and, most comforting of all, there
was nothing else to be done. In the doze that followed I was surprised
to feel quite distinctly something like a drop of rain strike my leg,
and then another on my hat.
"Hang it all, it is raining," I said, sitting up again and quite wide
awake this time. There was Jock still looking at me, but only for the
moment of moving, it appears; for, a minute later he looked up into the
tree above me with ears cocked, head on one side, and tail held lazily
on the horizontal and moving slowly from time to time.
It was his look of interested amusement.
A couple of leaves fluttered down, and then the half-eaten pip of a
`wooden orange' struck me in the face as I lay back again to see what
was going on above. The pip gave me the line, and away up among the
thick dark foliage I saw a little old face looking down at me; the quick
restless eyes were watchfully on the move, and the mouth partly opened
in the shape of an O--face and attitude together a vivid expression of
surprise and indignation combined with breathless interest.
As my eyes fairly met those above me, the monkey ducked its head forward
and promptly `made a face' at me without uttering a sound. Then others
showed up in different places, and whole figures became visible now as
the monkeys stole softly along the branches to get a better look at Jock
and me: there were a couple of dozen of them of all sizes.
They are the liveliest, most restless, and most inquisitive of
creatures; ludicrously nervous and excitable; quick to chattering anger
and bursts of hysterical passion, which are intensely comical,
especially when they have been scared. They are creatures whose method
of progress most readily betrays them by the swaying of a branch or
quivering of leaves, yet they can steal about and melt away at will,
like small grey ghosts, silent as the grave.
I had often tried to trap them, but never succeeded: Jantje caught them,
as he caught everything, with cunning that out-matched his wilder
kindred; pitfalls, nooses, whip-traps, fall-traps, foot-snares, drags,
slip-knots of all kinds, and tricks that I cannot now remember, were in
his repertory; but he disliked showing his traps, and when told to
explain he would half sulkily show one of the common kind.
The day he caught the monkey he was well pleased, and may possibly have
told the truth. Baboons and monkeys, he said, can count just like men,
but they can only count two! If one man goes into a mealie field and
waits for them with a gun, their sentry will see him, and he may wait
for ever; if two go and one remains, it is useless, for they realise
that only one has come out where two went in; but if three go in, one
may remain behind to lie in wait for them, for the monkeys, seeing more
than one return, will invade the mealie field as soon as the two are
safely out of the way. That was only Jantje's explanation of the
well-known fact that monkeys and baboons know the difference between one
and more than one.
But, as Jantje explained, their cleverness helped him to catch them. He
went alone and came away alone, leaving his trap behind, knowing that
they were watching his every movement, but knowing also that their
intense curiosity would draw them to it the moment it seemed safe. The
trap he used was an old calabash or gourd with a round hole in it about
an inch in diameter; and a few pumpkin seeds and mealies and a hard
crust of bread, just small enough to get into the calabash, formed the
bait.
After fastening the gourd by a cord to a small stump, he left it lying
on its side on the ground where he had been sitting. A few crumbs and
seeds were dropped near it and the rest placed in the gourd, with one or
two showing in the mouth. Then he walked off on the side where he would
be longest in view, and when well out of sight sped round in a circuit
to a previously selected spot where he could get close up again and
watch.
The foremost monkey was already on the ground when he got back and
others were hanging from low branches or clinging to the stems, ready to
drop or retreat. Then began the grunts and careful timid approaches,
such as one sees in a party of children hunting for the hidden `ghost'
who is expected to appear suddenly and chase them; next, the chattering
garrulous warnings and protests from the timid ones--the females--in the
upper branches; the sudden start and scurry of one of the youngsters;
and the scare communicated to all, making even the leader jump back a
pace; then his angry grunt and loud scolding of the frightened ones--
angry because they had given him a fright, and loud because he was
reassuring himself.
After a pause they began the careful roundabout approach and the
squatting and waiting, making pretences of not being particularly
interested, while their quick eyes watched everything; then the deft
picking up of one thing--instantly dropped again, as one picks up a
roasted chestnut and drops it in the same movement, in case it should be
hot; and finally the greedy scramble and chatter.
I have seen all that, but not, alas, the successful ending, when trying
to imitate Jantje's methods. Jantje waited until the tugs at the gourd
became serious, and then, knowing that the smaller things had been taken
out or shaken out and eaten and that some enterprising monkey had put
its arm into the hole and grabbed the crust, he ran out.
A monkey rarely lets go any food it has grabbed, and when, as in this
case, the hand is jammed in a narrow neck, the letting go cannot easily
be done instinctively or inadvertently; the act requires a deliberate
effort. So Jantje caught his monkey, and flinging his ragged coat over
the captive sat down to make it safe. By pushing the monkey's arm
deeper into the gourd the crust became released and the hand freed; he
then gradually shifted the monkey about until he got the head into the
shoulders of the loose old coat, and thence into the sleeve; and worked
away at this until he had the creature as helpless as a mummy with the
head appearing at the cuff-opening and the body jammed in the sleeve
like a bulging overstuffed sausage. The monkey struggled, screamed,
chattered, made faces, and cried like a child; but Jantje gripping it
between his knees worked away unmoved.
He next took the cord from the calabash and tied one end securely round
the monkey's neck, to the shrinking horror of that individual, and the
other end to a stout bush stick about seven or eight feet long; and then
slipped monkey cord and stick back through the sleeve and had his
captive safe; the cord prevented it from getting away, and the stick
from getting too close and biting him. When they sat opposite and
pulled faces at each other the family likeness was surprising.
The grimacing little imps invariably tempt one to tease or chase them,
just to see their antics and methods; and when I rose, openly watching
them and stepping about for a better view, they abandoned the silent
methods and bounded freely from branch to branch for fresh cover, always
ducking behind something if I pointed the gun or a stick or even my arm
at them, and getting into paroxysms of rage and leaning over slang and
cheek me whenever it seemed safe.
Jock was full of excitement, thoroughly warmed up and anxious to be at
them, running about from place to place to watch them, tacking and
turning and jumping for better views, and now and then running to the
trunk and scraping at it. Whenever he did this there was a moment's
silence; the idea of playing a trick on them struck me and I caught Jock
up and put him in the fork of a big main branch about six feet from the
ground. The effect was magical: the whole of the top of the tree seemed
to whip and rustle at once, and in two seconds there was not a monkey
left.
Then a wave in the top of a small tree some distance off betrayed them
and we gave chase--a useless romping schoolboy chase. They were in the
small trees away from the river and it was easy to see and follow them;
and to add to the fun and excitement I threw stones at the branches
behind them. Their excitement and alarm then became hysterical, and as
we darted about to head them off they were several times obliged to
scamper a few yards along the ground to avoid me and gain other trees.
It was then that Jock enjoyed himself most: he ran at them and made
flying leaps and snaps as they sprang up the trees out of reach. It was
like a caricature of children in one of their make-believe chases; the
screams, grimaces, and actions were so human that it would have seemed
like a tragedy had one of them been hurt. They got away into the big
trees once more, to Jock's disappointment but greatly to my relief; for
I was quite pumped from the romp and laughter.
The river at this point was broken into several sluices by islands
formed of piles of rocks on which there were a few stunted trees and
dense growths of tall reeds, and here and there little spits and fringes
of white sand were visible. There was plenty of small game in that
part, and it was a great place for crocodiles. As we were then about
half a mile below where Mungo had been left I strolled along the bank on
the look out for a shot, frequently stopping to examine
suspicious-looking rocks on the sand spits or at the borders of the reed
fringes on the little islands.
The shooting of crocodiles was an act of war: it was enmity and not
sport or a desire for trophies that prompted it, and when it did not
interfere with other chances we never missed a practice shot at these
fellows. I picked out several `rocks,' so suspicious looking that I
would have had a shot at them had there been a clear chance, and twice,
while I was trying to make them out, they slid silently into the water
before there was time to fire.
However, further on there came a better chance than any: there was
something so peculiar about the look of this `rock' that I picked a good
spot and sat down to watch it; and presently the part nearest me turned
slightly, just enough to show that it was a crocodile lying on the flat
sand with his nose towards me and his tail hidden in the reeds. It was
fifty yards away, and from where I sat there was not much to aim at, as
a Martini bullet would glance from almost any part of that polished hard
case if it struck at such an angle.
I was sitting on the bank above the shelving beach of the river on which
a dense mass of reeds grew, and the waving feathery tops partly obscured
the sight. I know the bullet hit him somewhere, because he bounded with
astonishing strength and activity several feet in the air and his tail
slashed through the reeds like a mighty scythe. The huge jaws opened
and he gave a horrible angry bellow--something between a roar and a
snarl--as he plunged into the river, sending masses of spray and water
flying every way. He made straight across, apparently at me, swimming
on top of the water at amazing speed and throwing up a wave on either
side and a white swirl of foam from the propelling tail.
It was certainly a most surprising and unheard-of proceeding, and as he
reached my side of the stream, and because hidden from me by the screen
of reeds at my feet, I turned and bolted. It may be that he came at me
with murderous intent; or it may be that, blinded by rage or pain, he
came towards me simply because he happened to be facing that way; but,
whatever the reason, it was painfully clear that if he meant business he
would be on to me before it was possible to see him in the reeds. That
was enough for me. It had never occurred to me that there was going to
be any fun in this for the crocodile; but one's sense of humour and
justice was always being stimulated in the Bushveld.
With twenty yards of open ground between us I turned and waited; but no
crocodile appeared, nor was there a sound to be heard in the reeds. A
few minutes wait; a cautious return; a careful scrutiny; and then resort
to sticks and stones; but all to no purpose: there was neither sign nor
sound of the crocodile; and not being disposed to go into the reeds to
look for something which I did not want, but might want me, I returned
to Mungo--a little wiser, it is true, but not unduly `heady' on that
account.
Half an hour's jogging along the bank having failed to propose anything,
I struck away from the river taking a line through the bush towards
camp, and eventually came across a small herd of blue wildebeeste.
Mungo's pricked ears and raised head warned me; but the grass being high
it was not easy to see enough of them from the ground to place an
effective shot, and before a chance offered they moved off slowly. I
walked after them, leading Mungo and trying to get a fair opening on
slightly higher ground.
Presently half a dozen blackish things appeared above the tall grass;
they were the heads of the wildebeeste--all turned one way, and all
looking at us with ears wide spread. Only the upper halves of the heads
were visible through the thinner tops of the grass, and even an ordinary
standing shot was not possible. I had to go to a tree for support in
order to tip-toe for the shot, and whilst in the act of raising my rifle
the heads disappeared; but I took chance and fired just below where the
last one had shown up.
The wildebeeste were out of sight, hidden by grass six feet high, but a
branch of the tree beside me served as a horizontal bar and hoisting
myself chin high I was able to see them again. In front of us there was
a dry vlei quite free of bush, some two hundred yards across and four
hundred yards long, and the wildebeeste had gone away to the right and
were skirting the vlei, apparently meaning to get round to the opposite
side, avoiding the direct cut across the vlei for reasons of their own.
It occurred to me that there must be a deep donga or perhaps a mud hole
in front which they were avoiding; but that it might be possible for me
to get across, or even half-way across, in time to have another shot at
them the next time they stopped to look back, as they were almost
certain to do; so I ran straight on.
One does not have to reason things out like that in actual practice: the
conclusion comes instantly, as if by instinct, and no time is lost. To
drop from the branch, pick up the rifle, and start running were all
parts of one movement. Stooping slightly to prevent my bobbing hat from
showing up in the grass tops, and holding the rifle obliquely before me
as a sort of snowplough to clear the grass from my eyes, I made as good
pace as the ground would allow.
No doubt the rifle held in front of me made it difficult to notice
anything on the ground; but the concentrated stare across the vlei in
the direction of the galloping wildebeeste was quite as much the cause
of what followed. Going fast and stooping low, with all my weight
thrown forward, I ran right into a wildebeeste cow. My shot had wounded
her through the kidneys, completely paralysing the hind quarters, and
she had instantly dropped out of sight in the grass. The only warning I
got was a furious snort, and the black looking monster with great
blazing blood-shot eyes rose up on its front legs as I ran into it.
To charge into a wounded wildebeeste ready to go for you, just when your
whole attention is concentrated upon others two hundred yards beyond, is
nearly as unpleasant as it is unexpected; it becomes a question of what
will happen to you, rather than of what you will do. That at any rate
was my experience. The rifle, if it had hindered me, also helped: held
out at arms length it struck the wildebeeste across the forehead and the
collision saved my chest from the horns. There was an angry toss of the
big head and the rifle was twirled out of my hand, as one might flip a
match away.
I do not know exactly what happened: the impression is of a breathless
second's whirl and scramble, and then finding myself standing untouched
five yards away, with the half-paralysed wildebeeste squatting like a
dog and struggling to drag the useless hind quarters along in its
furious efforts to get at Jock who had already intervened to help me.
The rifle lay within the circle of the big hooked horns; and the
squatting animal, making a pivot of its hind quarters, slewed round and
round, making savage lunges at Jock and great heaves at me each time I
tried to get the rifle. It often happens that shots touching the
kidneys produce a paralysis, temporarily severe, which passes off to a
great extent after some minutes and leaves the wounded animal well able
to charge: it happened to me some years later while trying to photograph
a wounded sable.
I tried to hook the gun out with a stick but the wildebeeste swung round
and faced me at once, snapping the sticks and twirling them out of my
hands with surprising ease and quickness. I then tried another game,
and by making feint attacks from the other side at last got the animal
gradually worked away from my gun; and the next attempt at raking was
successful.
When the excitement was over and there was a chance of taking stock of
the position, I found that Jock had a pretty good `gravel rash' on one
hip and a nasty cut down one leg; he had caught the wildebeeste by the
nose the instant I ran into it, and it had `wiped the floor' with him
and flung him aside.
I found my bandolier with a broken buckle lying on the grass; one shirt
sleeve was ripped open; the back of the right hand cut across; hands and
knees were well grated; and there were lumps and bruises about the legs
for which there was no satisfactory explanation. I must have scrambled
out like an unwilling participant in a dog fight.
It was a long job skinning, cutting up, and packing the wildebeeste, and
when we reached the outspan the waggons had already started and we had a
long tramp before us to catch them.
I drove Mungo before me, keeping him at an easy-jog. We had been going
for possibly an hour and it was quite dark, except for the stars and the
young moon low down on our right; the road was soft and Mungo's jogging
paces sounded like floppy pats; there was no other sound at all, not
even a distant rumble from the waggons to cheer us; Mungo must have been
sick of it and one might have thought him jogging in his sleep but for
the occasional pricking of his ears--a trick that always makes me wonder
how much more do horses see in the dark than we do. I walked like a
machine, with rifle on shoulder and glad to be rid of the broken
bandolier, then transferred to Mungo; and Jock trotted at my heels.
This tired monotonous progress was disturbed by Mungo: his ears pricked;
his head went up; and he stopped, looking hard at a big low bush on our
left. I gave him a tap with the switch, and without an instant
hesitation he dashed off to the right making a half circle through the
veld and coming into the road again fifty yards ahead, and galloped away
leaving a rising column of dust behind him.
I stood and faced the bush that Mungo had shied at, and the first thing
that occurred to me was that my bandolier and cartridges were with the
pony. Then Jock growled low and moved a few steps forward and slightly
to the right, also sheering off from that bush. I felt that he was
bristling all over, but there was neither time nor light to watch him.
I stepped slowly sideways after him gripping the rifle and looking hard
at the bush.
Our line was much the same as Mungo's and would take us some seven or
eight paces off the road--more than that was not possible owing to the
barrier of thorns on that side. When we got abreast of the bush two
large spots of pale light appeared in the middle of it, apparently waist
high from the ground.
It is impossible to forget the tense creepy feeling caused by the dead
stillness, the soft light, and the pale expressionless glow of those
eyes--the haunting mystery of eyes and nothing more!
It is not unusual to see eyes in the night; but this was a `nervy'
occasion, and there is no other that comes back with all the vividness
and reality of the experience itself, as this one does. And I was not
the only nervous one. Mungo incontinently bolted--probably what he saw
warranted it; Jock, as ever, faced it; but when my foot touched his hind
leg as we sidled away he flew round with a convulsive jump. He too was
strung to concert pitch.
As we moved on and passed the reflecting angle of the moon, the light of
the eyes went out as suddenly and silently as it had appeared. There
was nothing then to show me where danger lay; but Jock knew, and I kept
a watch on him. He jogged beside me, lagging slightly as if to cover
our retreat, always looking back. A couple of times he stopped entirely
and stood in the road, facing straight back and growling; and I followed
suit. He was in command; he knew!
There was nothing more. Gradually Jock's subdued purring growl died
down and the glances back became fewer. I found Mungo a long way on,
brought to a standstill by the slipping of his load; and we caught up to
the waggons at the next outspan.