"And ever with unconquerable will,
Bearing her burden, toward one distant star
She moves in her desire; and though with pain
She labour, and the goal she dreams be far,
Proud is she in her passionate soul to know
That from her tears, her very sorrows grow
The joy, the hope, the peace of future men."
The speaker, as he finished these lines, recited half to himself, half
to his friend, in a dreamy monotone, gazed again into the dark night sky
above him, and fetched a deep breath--almost a sigh.
"Hullo, Bill!" remarked his friend by the camp-fire, in a brisk tone.
"Breaking out that way again, are you? I haven't heard poetry from
you--of that sort--for weeks. I suppose all the hunting and hard work
lately has knocked the stuffing out of you. A day's rest, and you burst
into song again. Who's your author? I don't seem to know him. Not
Tennyson, is it?"
"No, old chap," returned Bill, "it isn't. It's a new man--Lawrence
Binyon--and he's got some mettle in him. I think that image of his of
our poor old earth staggering along with her load to some far-off goal,
still, among all her tears and sorrows, buoyed with future hopes, is
magnificent. Is it true, though? Is there that great secret, and does
she know it?"
Bill Vincent and Ralph Jenner, the two men who sat by the pleasant
camp-fire in the far South African interior, were old friends, now
engaged on a hunting expedition towards the Okavango.
Nowadays you may find, scattered about that vast mysterious land, many
scores of well-educated gentlemen knocking about in the veldt, often
dressed in clothes and engaged in work that a British navvy would scorn,
yet, barring a slight access of strong language, born of the wilderness,
still gentlemen at heart, and capable of returning to civilisation
without loss or deterioration. Here were two of them. The burnt arms
of the two men, and their sun-tanned faces and chests and rough beards,
their thorn-tattered breeches, and scarred old pigskin gaiters, showed
plainly that they had been long afield. And the numerous heads, horns,
and skins hanging in trees near, and bestowed about the wagon,
sufficiently indicated the main object of their trip.
Their big wagon stood near; beyond it, lying at their yokes, chewing
peacefully the cud, the great trek oxen rested. Six hunting ponies were
carefully fastened to the wagon-wheels in full light of the camp-fires.
Thirty yards away from the two Englishmen, gathered round a still bigger
fire, were the native "boys," some still chattering, some fast asleep.
Round about, the camp was engirt with bush and thin forest of
giraffe-acacia.
As usual it was a glorious night. Only those who have lain out month
after month in the vast silent veldt of the far interior can realise the
unspeakable majesty of the deep indigo void of the night heaven, sown
with a myriad flashing diamonds, that looms above the wanderer. The
airs were soft and sweet; the night was absolutely perfect. Almost
complete silence rested upon the wild. Bill took a fresh ember from the
fire and relit his pipe.
"My boy," he went on, "with all the roughs and tumbles of this life--and
it's a glorious life while it lasts, and where the game's plentiful
there's none better in this world--one can't help thinking sometimes
what it all means and where it ends. No man, I take it, can live with
Nature as we do, and look up at that sky,"--here Bill turned his gaze
upward, and with his short pipe indicated the glittering array of
stars,--"with its myriads of systems, and deny some great Power behind
it all. And yet--and yet, in all these tens of thousands of years, with
all the millions upon millions of souls that have come and gone, we know
absolutely nothing of the hereafter. That's what beats me. No true or
certain message has ever yet come from the dead to tell us what happens
when the last plunge is made. Chaldeans, Egyptians, Assyrians, Romans,
Greeks, Buddhists, Confucians, Hebrews, Christians, all have tried their
level best to get at the secret; none--no, not one--have solved it.
They all have their theories, of course. I suppose they always will.
But to any real solution of the great secret, to the real truth, we are
no nearer than we were ten thousand years ago. The wisest of them all
are dumb and mute, and, I suppose, always will be. Look at the
Spiritualists. What do they tell us? A lot of piffling rubbish--
knockings, rappings, and contemptible nonsense of that sort--but of
serious truth, of what we want to know, not one little bit.
"Religions, and creeds, and beliefs never help us to pierce the big veil
yonder. Ethics are all right enough; but even ethics can't solve that
immense mystery. One can only long and wonder, and wonder and long
again. Don't laugh, old chap. I don't often inflict you with this sort
of thing; but out here in the desert, face to face with Nature, with
time to think, one can't help puzzling over this world-worn problem.
One finds so much wrong in what one hears in the world. You know that
as well as I. Why, look at the dream of universal peace--swords turned
into ploughshares, lions and lambs lying down together, and all that
sort of thing. What rot it is! One comes out here in the veldt and
looks at Nature, and one finds _everywhere_ the most ghastly war, and
murder, and suffering incessantly around one. Birds, beasts, insects,
reptiles, fish--all hard at it. You can never have peace in this world.
Battle, and murder, and sudden death will, I believe, last as long as
the earth lasts. You may have epochs of civilisation and calm, but only
for a time. Nature tells us that plainly, and you can't get away from
Nature."
"I'm not laughing, Bill," returned his comrade. "Sometimes, but not
very often, I have the same thoughts. Everybody, I suppose, has at
times. Your puzzle has puzzled the world always, and always will. And
the more one gets away from the din and struggle of the beastly towns,
the bigger seems the mystery of life and the beyond. But it's no use
worrying about it. The baby that dies every day somewhere in the world,
I suppose knows more than we shall ever do till the end comes. After
all, one can only try and play the game, and do one's poor little best
according to one's lights and ethics."
"I suppose so," answered Bill. "But it's a secret worth knowing, old
chap, isn't it? It _must_ be, if one only knew."
The two friends sat smoking and talking for half an hour longer upon
different topics, mainly to do with hunting, and then climbed into the
wagon, tucked themselves beneath their karosses, and slept the
refreshing sleep of the veldt.
A fortnight later they were camped on a tributary stream north of the
Okavango. They had left their wagon standing on the southern bank of
the big river, and the Bayeiye had ferried them across in their
dug-outs. Here buffalo were in plenty--the vast reed-beds were full of
them--and they had already secured plenty of meat and some good heads.
It was early dawn, and they were drinking a cup of coffee by the remains
of the overnight camp-fire. The sky was just paling in the east, and
already the world was astir in this remote wilderness. The hippos were
blowing in the river a little below them; long flights of storks were
winding through the clear air; multitudes of duck, geese, and other
wildfowl were raising their clamour upon the waters. Presently their
native hunter crept in from a tour of inspection. "Sieur," he said, a
grin of pleasure upon his keen face, "there's a big troop of buffalo
down there by the water now. They are not far from some bush, and you
can get a good shot before they make for the reeds again. And there are
some big bulls among them--old fellows with horns so thick!"--spreading
out his arms with perhaps a trifle of exaggeration.
"That's all right, Cobus," responded Bill Vincent. "We'll come along at
once. How far are they off?"
"Less than a quarter of a mile, Sieur. You can hear them a little way
on, trampling and splashing in the shallows. They're feeding all round
there."
"Capital!" exclaimed Ralph, picking up his double eight-bore and looking
through the barrels. "Here, you, Tatenyan, lay hold of that," handing
another native his second rifle. "Be careful, you beggar; it's loaded."
Tatenyan grinned an immense grin, and took the rifle.
Accompanied by their two gun-bearers, the white men set off in high
spirits. There was plenty of scattered cover between them and the
buffalo, principally thorn-bush, and the hunters picked their way as
noiselessly as possible, following the lead of Cobus.
A noble koodoo bull, carrying a magnificent pair of spiral horns, stared
at them for a second as they entered a grassy clearing, and then with
his three cows fled away before them.
But they were after heavier game even than the gallant koodoo, and he
went unscathed.
Now they are nearing the buffalo. Beyond the fringe of bush which yet
masks them they can hear the great beasts grunting, wallowing,
splashing, nay, even hear them plucking the sweet grass that margins the
lagoon. The wind, what there is of it, is right in their faces. The
game here has scarcely ever yet been disturbed by gunners; they are safe
for sport.
Old hands though they are, they now steal breathlessly through the bush.
Cobus has resigned the lead, and the two friends stalk in with the
greatest care together. At last they peer through a small opening.
What a scene lies before them! A troop of at least three hundred mighty
buffalo, bulls, cows, and calves, some feeding, some drinking, some
rolling in the shallow lagoon, some playfully butting at one another.
All, utterly unconscious of impending danger, stand there within a
radius of two hundred yards; the nearest of them are within fifty. A
more inspiring prospect hunter's eye never beheld.
Numbers of the weaver birds (_Bubalornis erythrorhyncus_), always found
associating with buffalo, are here, some picking busily at the parasites
on the great creatures' backs; others flitting hither and thither,
chattering noisily, intent on business or pleasure. Even the sharp
weaver birds detect no enemy--much less their allies the buffaloes. A
few white egrets, apparently as fearless of the great quadrupeds as the
buffalo birds, add beauty to the scene. Some of these charming herons,
too, are perched upon the buffalo, their snowy plumes contrasting
sharply with the sombre hides of their gigantic friends. Birds and
quadrupeds alike are all void of suspicion upon this bright, quiet
morning in the far African wilderness.
Having taken in with an eager glance or two this wonderful picture, the
two men and their gun-bearers crouch down behind the thick screen of
bush and wait. It seems half an hour to them. At length, in about five
minutes, two massive old bulls, grim, heavy-fronted, and carrying
immense horns, nearly devoid of hair, short in the legs, yet of
tremendous bulk, come feeding past within easy range. The two men
glance at one another, and with a nod single out their victims.
On a sudden their heavy rifles roar out together. One of the bulls
falls instantly to the shot; the other staggers, but plunges on. There
is a terrific commotion among the herd. The great beasts all gallop
left-handed, seeking an outlet in the ring of bush. Through the lagoon
they splash, driving the water in masses of spray about them, and then
away they rave through grass and undergrowth, making the earth thunder
beneath them. Bill, whose buffalo has for the moment escaped, selects a
fat cow, and with two bullets well planted brings her down. The vast
troop has passed away, and they now emerge to inspect their quarry.
The dead buffaloes are fine specimens, and in high condition and,
leaving Tatenyan behind to begin the skinning and cutting-up process,
the two Englishmen now proceed together with Cobus to take up the
blood-spoor of the wounded bull and finish him off. He carries a
magnificent pair of horns--a champion head--which Bill yearns to possess
himself of.
Cobus, with the marvellous skill of the native African hunter, quickly
separates the trail of the wounded beast from its scores of fellows, and
presently, as they enter the bush, bears suddenly to the left. The
stricken brute has turned him aside from the battle, and the main body
of the troop have plunged right-handed through the bush to seek shelter
in the dense reed-beds not far away.
At first the blood-spoor, which is now easily followed, takes them
through fairly open bush, in which they can see about them without much
difficulty. So far all is well. A wounded buffalo is, as all hunters
know, the most dangerous and tricky beast in Africa, and in thickish
bush his pursuer must needs follow him yard by yard with his life in his
hand. Presently the spoor takes them by a narrow game-path through
impenetrable thorny covert six or eight feet high. Patches of bright
red blood show that the buffalo is bleeding freely, and from the lungs;
he cannot go far at this rate. Cobus, who has led the way hitherto,
looks at the dark wall of bush on either hand, indicates the deep shade
thrown here and there, and the possibility of dangerous ambush at any
moment, and shakes his head. He likes the job little enough, and he is
perfectly right. To go on is to risk a violent death, and there is
little chance of escape from a charge in such confined quarters. But to
many Englishmen the constant spice of clanger adds greatly to the charm
of sport in Africa. Bill quietly pulls Cobus behind him, knits his
brow, and prepares to creep forward. Ralph in his turn supersedes
Cobus, and dogs the heels of his friend. It looks like a nasty
business, and he wishes them all well out of it; but he can't now go
back on his chum.
Breathlessly, cautiously, they pick their way down the narrow game-path.
The dense thicket shuts out every trace of the cool outer breeze; the
sun beats down hotly upon their heads; lightly clad though they are, the
sweat starts freely from their bodies. Silently they move on. They
turn an angle or two, pass safely some dark shadows in the bush-wall,
and then, without a fiftieth part of a second of warning, from a piece
of bush where you might swear a steinbok could not have hidden itself, a
great dark form comes charging forth, with eyes of fire, blood-dripping
nostrils, and head well up.
In an instant the revengeful beast has cleared the angle of bush where
it had lain silently biding its time, and is almost on top of Bill.
Bill fires one shot,--he has no time for more,--and then, to save
himself, springs as far to the left as possible. In vain! His bullet
glances harmlessly from the tremendous frontal horn of the buffalo
without stopping or even injuring the brute. Another half instant and
the great grim beast has taken terrible revenge.
There is a single lightning-like sweep of the heavy head, a dull,
sickening thud, and Bill is sent crashing into the thorny thicket yards
away.
The buffalo stands in devilish wrath for a brief moment, a terrible
picture, meditating its next attack; its left chest is exposed.
Ralph instantly seizes his only hope of salvation and poor Bill's. His
eight-bore rifle is at his shoulder, the loud report roars out, and the
bull staggers to earth, sore-stricken yet not vanquished. Fiercely he
struggles for his feet again, the blood pouring from his mouth and
nostrils with the tremendous exertion. In the next instant another
bullet, planted in the centre of his forehead, just below the rugged
mass of horn, ends his career, and he breathes out his last with that
fierce complaining bellow peculiar to the death-throe of his race.
Ralph and the native turn at once to Bill, lying senseless and bleeding,
deeply embedded in the frightful mass of thorny bush. It is a tough
task even to extricate him; but after some minutes' hewing and hacking
with their hunting knives it is at last accomplished, and the victim is
laid tenderly on the smooth game-path.
Alas! his injuries are terrible. Several ribs are displaced and smashed
on the right side; there is a deep jagged hole beneath; and the sharp
horn, driven with the mighty strength of an old buffalo bull, has
penetrated far into the lung. So much is at once apparent, and it looks
sadly as if Bill's hours are numbered.
It is a shocking blow for Ralph. Who could have dreamed that that
strong, active man, not yet at his prime, full of pluck, enterprise, and
a perennial cheeriness--but ten short minutes before cracking some
half-whispered joke to his friend and servant--could now be lying, a
battered, senseless rag of humanity, in his comrade's arms?
As well as they can, the two sound men bind up the gaping wound, and
stanch the bleeding, and then, between them, tenderly they carry the
still senseless hunter back to camp.
It was but a twenty minutes' journey, slowly as they progressed, yet to
Ralph it seemed long hours.
At last they laid the wounded man gently upon his blankets, beneath the
shade of the big thorn tree, washed and carefully bound up his dreadful
hurt, poured brandy between his poor bloodstained lips, and then--there
was nothing else to be done--awaited the event. It was too far to
attempt to convey him across the river to the wagons; the slightest
movement greatly increased the bleeding from the mouth, and suffocation
seemed imminent. Ralph sent Tatenyan across in a canoe for more brandy;
for the rest of that weary, hot African day he could only watch and
wait.
Bill lay senseless far into the afternoon, breathing out, as it seemed,
slowly and very painfully his remaining stock of life. Towards sunset,
he opened his eyes feebly, looked about him, and whispered faintly to
Ralph, now bending over him with his eyes full of irrestrainable tears,
"Where's the bull?"
"He's dead, old chap. I settled him after he struck you. Don't talk
much; I'm afraid you're very badly hurt."
"Yes," went on Bill, "he's about finished me, I think. I was an idiot
to follow him into that bush. Cobus was right. Well, I've paid dearly
for him. Take his head home, old chap, and hang it up. I don't think I
shall see this through; and when you look at the horns, you will think
of me, and the good days we had together in the veldt."
"Don't, don't, Bill," said Ralph. "For God's sake don't talk like that.
Who knows?--we may pull you through yet. Lie still, and don't talk,
there's a dear old chap."
"My head is clear now," whispered Bill, "and it mayn't last long. My
affairs are all right at home. If anything happens, see my lawyers.
Give my love to Laura (his sister) and Aunt Marion; tell them I thought
of them at the end. I feel faint... give me some brandy." Ralph poured
strong brandy and water into the sufferer's mouth, and he revived again.
"One more word, old chap," went on Bill. "I know I am near the end. I
feel it. I shall soon know that great secret we spoke of. _Remember
this_,"--he raised his left hand as he spoke, and feebly took hold of
Ralph's flannel shirt sleeve,--"If I can tell you hereafter, or let you
know, _I will. Don't forget! Don't forget_! If I can... It's dark,
isn't it? and I'm very sleepy. Hold my hand, dear old Ralph...
Good-bye. If I don't see you..."
Bill's head fell back a little; his eyes closed again; a little blood
trickled from his lips; his breathing came and went with yet more
effort. Again Ralph administered more brandy to his dying friend. It
was of little use. Bill never rallied more. In half an hour the end
had come, and Ralph, still holding his friend's hand within his own,
knew that Bill had entered the unknown land, and that he himself had
lost the best and bravest comrade that ever entered the hunting veldt.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ralph took his friend's body across the river next morning, and buried
it reverently beneath a big giraffe-acacia tree by the wagons, and set
up a wooden cross in that lone wilderness. He took with him, too, the
great horns of the buffalo by which Bill had come to his untimely end.
Then slowly and painfully he made his way down-country, the saddest,
loneliest man in Africa, and presently reached England.
It is some years ago now, but Ralph has never forgotten that last scene
and Bill's impressive words. Often, whether he be in the far
wilderness--to which he still periodically returns--or at home, in the
park, or at his club, or in his own sanctum, surrounded by many a goodly
spoil of the chase, he thinks of his comrade's last words, and sees
before him every incident of that dying sunset beyond the Okavango
River.
But of the Great Secret,--of that mystery which Bill so earnestly
desired to pierce,--Ralph has never yet heard.