We had not touched fresh meat for many days, as there had been no time
for shooting; but I knew that game was plentiful across the river in the
rough country between the Kaap and Crocodile, and I started off to make
the best of the day's delay, little dreaming that it was to be the last
time Jock and I would hunt together.
Weeks had passed without a hunt, and Jock must have thought there was a
sad falling away on the part of his master; he no longer expected
anything; the rifle was never taken down now except for an odd shot from
the outspan or to put some poor animal out of its misery. Since the
night with the lions, when he had been ignominiously cooped up, there
had been nothing to stir his blood and make life worth living; and this
morning as he saw me rise from breakfast and proceed to potter about the
waggons in the way he had come to regard as inevitable, he looked on
indifferently for a few minutes and then stretched out full length in
the sun and went to sleep.
I could not take him with me across the river, as the `fly' was said to
be bad there, and it was no place to risk horse or dog. The best of
prospects would not have tempted me to take chance with him, but I hated
ordering him to stay behind, as it hurt his dignity and sense of
comradeship, so it seemed a happy accident that he was asleep and I
could slip away unseen. As the cattle were grazing along the river bank
only a few hundred yards off, I took a turn that way to have a look at
them, with natural but quite fruitless concern for their welfare, and a
moment later met the herd boy running towards me and calling out
excitedly something which I made out to be:
"Crocodile! Crocodile, Inkos! A crocodile has taken one of the oxen."
The waggon-boys heard it also, and armed with assegais and sticks were
on the bank almost as soon as I was; but there was no sign of crocodile
or bullock. The boy showed us the place where the weakened animal had
gone down to drink--the hoof slides were plain enough--and told how, as
it drank, the long black coffin-head had appeared out of the water. He
described stolidly how the big jaws had opened and gripped the bullock's
nose; how he, a few yards away, had seen the struggle; how he had
shouted and hurled his sticks and stones and tufts of grass, and feinted
to rush down at it; and how, after a muffled bellow and a weak
staggering effort to pull back, the poor beast had slid out into the
deep water and disappeared. It seemed to be a quite unnecessary
addition to my troubles: misfortunes were coming thick and fast!
Half an hour was wasted in watching and searching; but we saw no more of
crocodile or bullock, and as there was nothing to be done I turned up
stream to find a shallower and a safer crossing.
At best it was not pleasant: the water was waist high and racing in
narrow channels between and over boulders and loose slippery stones, and
I was glad to get through without a tumble and a swim.
The country was rough on the other side, and the old grass was high and
dense, for no one went there in those days, and the grass stood unburnt
from season to season. Climbing over rocks and stony ground, crunching
dry sticks underfoot, and driving a path through the rank tambooki
grass, it seemed well-nigh hopeless to look for a shot; several times I
heard buck start up and dash off only a few yards away, and it began to
look as if the wiser course would be to turn back. At last I got out of
the valley into more level and more open ground, and came out upon a
ledge or plateau a hundred yards or more wide, with a low ridge of rocks
and some thorns on the far side--quite a likely spot. I searched the
open ground from my cover, and seeing nothing there crossed over to the
rocks, threading my way silently between them and expecting to find
another clear space beyond. The snort of a buck brought me to a
standstill among the rocks, and as I listened it was followed by another
and another from the same quarter, delivered at irregular intervals; and
each snort was accompanied by the sound of trampling feet, sometimes
like stamps of anger and at other times seemingly a hasty movement.
I had on several occasions interrupted fights between angry rivals: once
two splendid koodoo bulls were at it; a second time it was two sables,
and the vicious and incredibly swift sweep of the scimitar horns still
lives in memory, along with the wonderful nimbleness of the other fellow
who dodged it; and another time they were blue wildebeeste; but some
interruption had occurred each time, and I had no more than a glimpse of
what might have been a rare scene to witness.
I was determined not to spoil it this time: no doubt it was a fight, and
probably they were fencing and circling for an opening, as there was no
bump of heads or clash of horns and no tearing scramble of feet to
indicate the real struggle. I crept on through the rocks and found
before me a tangle of thorns and dead wood, impossible to pass through
in silence; it was better to work back again and try the other side of
the rocks. The way was clearer there, and I crept up to a rock four or
five feet high, feeling certain from the sound that the fight would be
in full view a few yards beyond. With the rifle ready I raised myself
slowly until my eyes were over the top of the rock. Some twenty yards
off, in an open flat of down-trodden grass, I saw a sable cow: she was
standing with feet firmly and widely planted, looking fiercely in front
of her, ducking her head in threatening manner every few seconds, and
giving angry snorts; and behind, and huddled up against her, was her
scared bewildered little red-brown calf.
It seems stupid not to have guessed what it all meant; yet the fact is
that for the few remaining seconds I was simply puzzled and fascinated
by the behaviour of the two sables. Then in the corner of my eye I saw,
away on my right, another red-brown thing come into the open: it was
Jock, casting about with nose to ground for my trail which he had
over-run at the point where I had turned back near the deadwood on the
other side of the rocks.
What happened then was a matter of a second or two. As I turned to look
at him he raised his head, bristled up all over, and made one jump
forward; then a long low yellowish thing moved in the unbeaten grass in
front of the sable cow, raised its head sharply, and looked full into my
eyes; and before I could move a finger it shot away in one streak-like
bound. A wild shot at the lioness, as I jumped up full height; a shout
at Jock to come back; a scramble of black and brown on my left; and it
was all over: I was standing in the open ground, breathless with
excitement, and Jock, a few yards off, with hind legs crouched ready for
a dash, looking back at me for leave to go!
The spoor told the tale; there was the outer circle made by the lioness
in the grass, broken in places where she had feinted to rush in and
stopped before the lowered horns; and inside this there was the smaller
circle, a tangle of trampled grass and spoor, where the brave mother had
stood between her young and death.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Any attempt to follow the lioness after that would have been waste of
time. We struck off in a new direction, and in crossing a stretch of
level ground where the thorn-trees were well scattered and the grass
fairly short my eye caught a movement in front that brought me to
instant standstill. It was as if the stem of a young thorn-tree had
suddenly waved itself and settled back again, and it meant that some
long-horned buck, perhaps a koodoo or a sable bull, was lying down and
had swung his head; and it meant also that he was comfortably settled,
quite unconscious of danger. I marked and watched the spot, or rather,
the line, for the glimpse was too brief to tell more than the direction;
but there was no other move. The air was almost still, with just a
faint drift from him to us, and I examined every stick and branch, every
stump and ant-heap, every bush and tussock, without stirring a foot.
But I could make out nothing: I could trace no outline and see no patch
of colour, dark or light, to betray him.
It was an incident very characteristic of Bushveld hunting. There I
stood minute after minute--not risking a move, which would be certain to
reveal me--staring and searching for some big animal lying half asleep
within eighty yards of me on ground that you would not call good cover
for a rabbit. We were in the sunlight: he lay somewhere beyond, where a
few scattered thorn-trees threw dabs of shade, marbling with dappled
shade and light the already mottled surface of earth and grass. I was
hopelessly beaten, but Jock could see him well enough; he crouched
beside me with ears cocked, and his eyes, all ablaze, were fixed
intently on the spot, except for an occasional swift look up to me to
see what on earth was wrong and why the shot did not come; his hind legs
were tucked under him and he was trembling with excitement. Only those
will realise it who have been through the tantalising humiliating
experience. There was nothing to be done but wait, leaving the buck to
make the first move.
And at last it came: there was another slight shake of the horns, and
the whole figure stood out in bold relief. It was a fine sable bull
lying in the shadow of one of the thorn-trees with his back towards us,
and there was a small ant-heap close behind him, making a greyish blot
against his black back and shoulder, and breaking the expanse of colour
which the eye would otherwise easily have picked up.
The ant-heap made a certain shot impossible, so I lowered myself slowly
to the ground to wait until he should begin feeding or change his
position for comfort or shade, as they often do: this might mean waiting
for half an hour or more, but it was better than risking a shot in the
position in which he was lying. I settled down for a long wait with the
rifle resting on my knees, confidently expecting that when the time came
to move would get up slowly, stretch himself, and have a good look
round. But he did nothing of the kind; a turn or eddy of the faint
breeze must have given him my wind; for there was one twitch of the
horns, as his nose was laid to windward, and without an instant's pause
he dashed off. It was the quickest thing imaginable in a big animal: it
looked as though he started racing from his lying position. The bush
was not close enough to save him, however, in spite of his start, and
through the thin veil of smoke I saw him plunge and stumble, and then
dash off again; and Jock seeing me give chase, went ahead and in half a
minute I was left well behind, but still in sight of the hunt.
I shouted at Jock to come back, just as one murmurs good-day to a
passing friend in the din of traffic--from force of habit: of course, he
could hear nothing. It was his first and only go at a sable; he knew
nothing of the terrible horns and the deadly scythe-like sweep that
makes the wounded sable so dangerous--even the lioness had fought shy of
them--and great as was my faith in him, the risk in this case was not
one I would have taken. There was nothing to do but follow. A quarter
of a mile on I drew closer up and found them standing face to face among
the thorns. It was the first of three or four stands; the sable, with a
watchful eye on me, always moved on as I drew near enough to shoot. The
beautiful black and white bull stood facing his little red enemy and the
fence and play of feint and thrust, guard and dodge, was wonderful to
see. Not once did either touch the other; at Jock's least movement the
sable's head would go down with his nose into his chest and the
magnificent horns arched forward and poised so as to strike either right
or left, and if Jock feinted a rush either way the scythe-sweep came
with lightning quickness, covering more than half a circle and carrying
the gleaming points with a swing right over the sable's own back. Then
he would advance slowly and menacingly, with horns well forward ready to
strike and eyes blazing through his eyebrows, driving Jock before him.
There were three or four of these encounters in which I could take no
hand: the distance, the intervening thorns and grass, and the quickness
of their movements, made a safe shot impossible; and there was always
the risk of hitting Jock, for a hard run does not make for good
shooting. Each time as the sable drove him back there would be a short
vicious rush suddenly following the first deliberate advance, and as
Jock scrambled back out of the way the bull would swing round with
incredible quickness and be off full gallop in another direction.
Evidently the final rush was a manoeuvre to get Jock clear of his heels
and flanks as he started, and thus secure a lead for the next run.
Since the day he was kicked by the koodoo cow Jock had never tackled an
unbroken hind leg; a dangling one he never missed; but the lesson of the
flying heels had been too severe to be forgotten, and he never made that
mistake again. In this chase I saw him time after time try at the
sable's flanks and run up abreast of his shoulder and make flying leaps
at the throat; but he never got in front where the horns could reach
him, and although he passed and repassed behind to try on the other side
when he had failed at the one, and looked up eagerly at the hind legs as
he passed them, he made no attempt at them.
It must have been at the fourth or fifth stand that Jock got through the
guard at last. The sable was badly wounded in the body and doubtless
strength was failing, but there was little evidence of this yet. In the
pauses Jock's tongue shot and slithered about, a glittering red streak,
but after short spells of panting, his head would shut up with a snap
like a steel trap and his face set with that look of invincible
resolution which it got in part from the pursed-up mouth and in part
from the intensity of the beady black-brown eyes: he was good for hours
of this sort of work.
This time the sable drove him back towards a big thorn-tree. It may
have been done without design, or it may have been done with the idea of
pinning him up against the trunk. But Jock was not to be caught that
way; in a fight he took in the whole field, behind as well as in front--
as he had shown the night the second wild dog tackled him. On his side,
too, there may or may not have been design in backing towards the tree;
who knows? I thought that he scored, not by a manoeuvre, but simply
because of his unrelaxing watchfulness and his resolute unhesitating
courage. He seemed to know instinctively that the jump aside, so safe
with the straight-charging animals, was no game to play against the side
sweep of a sable's horns, and at each charge of the enemy he had
scrambled back out of range without the least pretence of taking
liberties.
This time the sable drove him steadily back towards the tree, but in the
last step, just as the bull made his rush, Jock jumped past the tree and
instead of scrambling back out of reach as before, dodged round and was
in the rear of the buck before it could turn on him. There were no
flying heels to fear then, and without an instant's hesitation he
fastened on one of the hind legs above the hock. With a snort of rage
and indignation the sable spun round and round, kicking and plunging
wildly and making vicious sweeps with his horns; but Jock, although
swung about and shaken like a rat, was out of reach and kept his grip.
It was a quick and furious struggle, in which I was altogether
forgotten, and as one more desperate plunge brought the bull down in a
struggling kicking heap with Jock completely hidden under him, I ran up
and ended the fight.
It always took him some time to calm down after these tussles: he became
so wound up by the excitement of the struggle that time was needed to
run down again, so to say. While I was busy on the double precaution of
fixing up a scare for the aasvogels and cutting grass and branches to
cover the buck, Jock moved restlessly round the sable, ever ready to
pounce on him again at the least sign of life. The slithering tongue
and wide-open mouth looked like a big red gash splitting his head in
two; he was so blown, his breath came and went like the puffing of a
diminutive steam-engine at full speed, and his eyes with all the
wickedness of fight--but none of the watchfulness--gone out of them,
flickered incessantly from the buck to me: one sign from either would
have been enough! It was the same old scene, the same old performance,
that I had watched scores of times; but it never grew stale or failed to
draw a laugh, a word of cheer, and pat of affection; and from him there
came always the same response, the friendly wagging of that stumpy tail,
a splashy lick, a soft upward look, and a wider split of the mouth that
was a laugh as plain as if one heard it. But that was only an
interruption--a few seconds' distraction: it did not put him off or
satisfy him that all was well. His attention went back to the buck, and
the everlasting footwork went on again. With his front to the fallen
enemy and his fore legs well apart he kept ever on the move forwards and
backwards, in quick steps of a few inches each, and at the same time
edging round in his zigzag circle, making a track round the buck like a
weather chart with the glass at `Changeable.'
"Silly old fusser! Can't you see he's finished?" He could not hear
anything, but the responsive wag showed that he knew I was talking to
him; and, dodging the piece of bark I threw at him, he resumed his
ridiculous round.
I was still laughing at him, when he stopped and turning sharply round
made a snap at his side; and a few seconds later he did it again. Then
there was a thin sing of insect wings; and I knew that the Tsetse fly
were on us.
The only thought then was for Jock, who was still working busily round
the sable. For some minutes I sat with him between my legs, wisping
away the flies with a small branch and wondering what to do. It soon
became clear that there was nothing to be gained by waiting: instead of
passing away the fly became more numerous, and there was not a moment's
peace or comfort to be had, for they were tackling me on the neck, arms,
and legs, where the thorn-ripped pants left them bare to the knees; so,
slinging the rifle over my shoulder, I picked Jock up, greatly to his
discomfort, and carried him off in my arms at the best pace possible
under the circumstances. Half a mile of that was enough, however: the
weight, the awkwardness of the position, the effort to screen him, and
the difficulty of picking my way in very rough country at the same time,
were too much for me. A tumble into a grass-hidden hole laid us both
out sprawling, and I sat down again to rest and think, swishing the
flies off as before.
Then an idea came which, in spite of all the anxiety, made me laugh, and
ended in putting poor old Jock in quite the most undignified and
ridiculous plight he had known since the days of his puppyhood when his
head stuck in the bully-beef tin or the hen pecked him on the nose. I
ripped off as much of my shirt as was not needed to protect me against
the flies, and making holes in it for his legs and tail fitted him out
with a home-made suit in about five minutes. Time was everything; it
was impossible to run with him in my arms, but we could run together
until we got out of the fly belt, and there was not much risk of being
bitten as long as we kept up the running in the long grass. It was a
long spell, and what with the rough country and the uncontrollable
laughter at the sight of Jock, I was pretty well done by the time we
were safely out of the `fly.' We pulled up when the country began to
fall away sharply towards the river, and there, to Jock's evident
satisfaction, I took off his suit--by that time very much tattered and
awry.
It was there, lying between two rocks in the shade of a marula tree,
that I got one of those chances to see game at close quarters of which
most men only hear or dream. There were no snapshot cameras then!
We had been lying there it may be for half an hour or more, Jock asleep
and I spread out on my back, when a slight but distinct click, as of a
hoof against a stone, made me turn quietly over on my side and listen.
The rock beside me was about four feet high, and on the other side of it
a buck of some kind, and a big one too, was walking with easy stride
towards the river. Every footstep was perfectly clear; the walk was
firm and confident: evidently there was not the least suspicion of
danger. It was only a matter of yards between us, and what little
breeze there was drifted across his course towards me, as he too made
for the river, holding a course parallel with the two long rocks between
which we were lying. The footsteps came abreast of us and then stopped,
just as I was expecting him to walk on past the rock and down the hill
in front of me. The sudden halt seemed to mean that some warning
instinct had arrested him, or some least taint upon the pure air softly
eddying between the rocks had reached him. I could hear his sniffs, and
pictured him looking about, silent but alarmed, before deciding which
way to make his rush.
I raised myself by inches, close to the rock, until I could see over it.
A magnificent waterbuck bull, full-grown and in perfect coat and
condition, was standing less than five yards away and a little to the
right, having already passed me when he came to a stop: he was so close
that I could see the waves and partings in his heavy coat; the rise and
fall in his flanks as he breathed; the ruff on his shaggy bearded
throat, that gave such an air of grandeur to the head; the noble
carriage, as with head held high and slightly turned to windward he
sniffed the breeze from the valley; the nostrils, mobile and sensitive,
searching for the least hint of danger; and the eye, large and full and
soft, luminous with watchful intelligence, and yet mild and calm--so
free was it from all trace of a disturbing thought. And yet I was so
close, it seemed almost possible to reach out and touch him. There was
no thought of shooting: it was a moment of supreme enjoyment. Just to
watch him: that was enough.
In a little while he seemed satisfied that all was well, and with head
thrown slightly forward and the sure clean tread of his kind, he took
his line unhesitatingly down the hill. As he neared the thicker bush
twenty yards away a sudden impulse made me give a shout. In a single
bound he was lost among the trees, and the clattering of loose stones
and the crackle of sticks in his path had ceased before the cold
shiver-down-the-back, which my spell-breaking shout provoked, had passed
away. When I turned round Jock was still asleep: little incidents like
that brought his deafness home.
It was our last day's hunting together; and I went back to the dreary
round of hard, hopeless, useless struggle and daily loss.
One day, a calm cloudless day, there came without warning a tremendous
booming roar that left the air vibrating and seemed to shake the very
earth, as a thousand echoes called and answered from hill to hill down
the long valley. There was nothing to explain it; the kaffirs turned a
sickly grey, and appealed to me; but I could give them no explanation--
it was something beyond my ken--and they seemed to think it an evil omen
of still greater ill-luck. But, as it turned out, the luck was not all
bad: some days passed before the mystery was solved, and then we came to
where Coombes, with whom a week earlier I had tried--and failed--to keep
pace, had been blown to pieces with his boys, waggon, oxen, and three
tons of dynamite: there was no fragment of waggon bigger than one's
hand; and the trees all around were barked on one side. We turned out
to avoid the huge hole in the drift, and passed on.
There were only twenty oxen left when we reached the drift below Fig
Tree. The water was nearly breast-high and we carried three-fourths of
the loads through on our heads, case by case, to make the pull as easy
as possible for the oxen, as they could only crawl then. We got one
waggon through with some difficulty, but at nightfall the second was
still in the river; we had carried out everything removable, even to the
buck-sails, but the weakened bullocks could not move the empty waggon.
The thunder-clouds were piling up ahead, and distant lightning gave
warning of a storm away up river; so we wound the trek-chain round a big
tree on the bank, to anchor the waggon in case of flood, and reeling
from work and weariness, too tired to think of food, I flung myself down
in my blankets under the other waggon which was outspanned where we had
stopped it in the double-rutted veld road, and settling comfortably into
the sandy furrow cut by many wheels, was `dead to the world' in a few
minutes. Near midnight the storm awoke me and a curious coldness about
the neck and shoulders made me turn over to pull the blankets up. The
road had served as a storm-water drain, converting the two wheel furrows
into running streams, and I, rolled in my blankets, had dammed up one of
them. The prompt flow of the released water as soon as I turned over,
told plainly what had happened. I looked out at the driving rain and
the glistening earth, as shown up by constant flashes of lightning: it
was a world of rain and spray and running water. It seemed that there
was neither hope nor mercy anywhere; I was too tired to care, and
dropping back into the trough, slept the night out in water.
In the morning we found the waggon still in the drift, although partly
hidden by the flood, but the force of the stream had half-floated and
half-forced it round on to higher ground; only the anchoring chain had
saved it. We had to wait some hours for the river to run down, and then
to my relief the rested but staggering oxen pulled it out at the first
attempt.
Rooiland, the light red ox with blazing yellow eyes and topped horns,
fierce and untamable to the end, was in the lead then. I saw him as he
took the strain in that last pull, and it was pitiful to see the
restless eager spirit fighting against the failing strength: he looked
desperate. The thought seems fanciful--about a dumb animal--and perhaps
it is; but what happened just afterwards makes it still vivid and fitted
in very curiously with the superstitious notions of the boys. We
outspanned in order to re-pack the loads, and Rooiland, who as front ox
was the last to be released, stood for a few moments alone while the
rest of the cattle moved away; then turning his back on them he gave a
couple of low moaning bellows and walked down the road back to the drift
again. I had no doubt it was to drink; but the boys stopped their work
and watched him curiously, and some remarks passed which were inaudible
to me. As the ox disappeared down the slope into the drift, Jim called
to his leader to bring him back, and then turning to me, added with his
usual positiveness, "Rooiland is mad. Umtagati! Bewitched! He is
looking for the dead ones. He is going to die to-day!"
The boy came back presently alone. When he reached the drift, he said,
Rooiland was standing breast-high in the river, and then in a moment,
whether by step or slip, he was into the flood and swept away. The
leader's account was received by the others in absolute silence: a
little tightening of the jaws and a little brightening of the eyes,
perhaps, were all I could detect. They were saturated with
superstition, and as pagan fatalists they accepted the position without
a word. I suggested to Jim that it was nothing but a return of
Rooiland's old straying habit, and probed him with questions, but could
get nothing out of him; finally he walked off with an expressive shake
of the head and the repetition of his former remark, without a shade of
triumph, surprise, or excitement in his voice: "He is looking for the
dead ones!"
We were out of the fly then, and the next day we reached Fig Tree.
That was the end of the last trek. Only three oxen reached Barberton,
and they died within the week: the ruin was complete.