JAGUARS AND PECCARIES—A FOREST DRAMA—STRENGTH IN
NUMBERS—RETALIATION.
The little peccary that we have been speaking about is the wild boar of
America—especially of South America—and though it is tiny compared to
the Indian wild boar, and sometimes gets into trouble, as we have seen,
yet it is a fierce and dangerous animal, and, generally, knows how to
take care of itself. Its principal enemy is the jaguar, the largest,
and, perhaps, the most destructive, of the cat tribe, after the lion and
tiger of the Old World; feared by every animal that scours the plains,
or glides through, or sports amongst, the trees of the great forests,
in which it is equally at home with the monkeys; feared, too, by man
himself. Except the puma and the great grizzly bear of the north, all
living things whose size makes them worthy its attention stand in dread
of this ferocious and destructive beast. That is why I have made the
peccary swear by the jaguars, instead of by the gods, as people used to
once, in the days of old; for what would a pig be likely to know about
the gods? No more than the ancient Greeks did. He might swear by the
alligators, though, sometimes, but not so often, as, on the whole, wild
pigs in America suffer more through jaguars than alligators; so they
would think them the strongest, and respect them accordingly.
I have said that the peccaries, though small animals—they are not more
than about three feet long—are both fierce and dangerous. They are
dangerous because they go in herds, and when any animal—such as a puma
or a jaguar—threatens them, they form in a semicircle with all their
heads turned outwards towards their foe, making an unbroken row of
little sharp, curved tusks for him to leap upon, if he is so rash as
to attack them. In that case he would, probably, never come from their
midst again. They would surround him, squealing with rage, and though
several of their number would, no doubt, fall victims to his teeth and
claws, the rest—as many as could get near him—would soon have ripped him
to pieces with their tusks. This need not be wondered at, since in India
one wild boar alone is sometimes a match for the mighty tiger, and the
two have been found lying dead together, the tiger almost disembowelled
with the terrible slashing cuts delivered by the boar, and the latter
with his back or neck broken. True, the Indian wild boar is himself a
mighty beast, standing sometimes four feet high or more at the shoulder,
and with tusks very much longer, even in proportion to his size, than
are those of the peccary. Still, a herd of peccaries is worse than the
largest single boar that ever stood, and all their tusks together are
more effective still.
[Illustration: BESIEGED.
The peccaries drove the large jaguar in terror up into the tree trunk.]
Occasionally, therefore, even the fierce jaguar itself, with all its
sinewy strength and lithe agility—armed, too, with the weapons of its
tribe, the long canine teeth and hooked, retractile claws—falls a victim
to the fury of these fierce little pigs, when banded together in herds.
Quite recently, as I understand, a party of travellers found themselves
present, as spectators, at one of these tragedies of the wilderness, of
which wild nature is so full, but which are so seldom witnessed by man,
even by savage man. In a clearing of the forest they came, suddenly,
upon a huge jaguar, maintaining with difficulty a precarious foothold
on the highest point of a fallen tree-trunk; to which it clung like a
shipwrecked mariner on the mast of a sinking vessel, whilst, all around,
there tossed and raged and bristled the living waves of a tempestuous sea
of peccaries. Though just beyond the reach of his foes, the jaguar was
not so much so, but that individuals of the herd, by leaping into the
air, could sometimes strike their tusks against the tree, so near to his
feet as to oblige, or, at any rate, to cause him to move them; nor did
the fierce beast, though growling horribly, dare to strike at them in
return, for fear of slipping on the smooth wood, from which the bark that
would have offered him a securer footing, had long ago rotted.
As it was, the embarrassed, yet still savage, tyrant of the forest
slipped more than once, and was only enabled by desperate agility to
recover its vantage ground, in time to avoid the fierce leaps of a dozen
or more of the peccaries. The latter sometimes leaped upon the trunk,
and ran along it as far as to a certain branch, which, by dividing the
narrow causeway, presented an obstacle which it was beyond their utmost
efforts to surmount. When they essayed to do so, they invariably fell
amidst their comrades below, and as the attempt was renewed again and
again, there was, for some time, a constant stream of ascending and then
falling pigs, which presented a comic appearance, in strange contrast
to the serious nature of the drama enacting. It would, generally, have
been impossible for any one peccary to return, after reaching the branch
in question, on account of those behind; but this none of them tried to
do, but uniformly endeavoured to pass the branch by a leap round one or
other side of it, in which they as uniformly failed. The branch itself,
being not much more than a stump, ending in a sharp point at the place
of breakage, was of no use to the jaguar, who, isolated on a narrow
yard or so of horizontal fallen timber, cast many a longing glance at
stately trees surrounding him on every side, and not far off, could he
only have leaped clear of the circle of white, gnashing tusks. In this
position matters remained for a considerable time, during the latter
part of which the peccaries stood much more still, as though resolved
to maintain a dogged siege, yet filling the air continually with their
fierce squealing grunts, which mingled in a horrid manner with the no
less savage growlings of the jaguar. The whole, we are assured, made a
never-to-be-forgotten scene, and produced a corresponding effect upon
the interested observers, who for some reason—perhaps because they were
not naturalists—were content, on this occasion, to watch nature without
interfering with her.
At length the end came. The jaguar, who had for some time been stretched
out, clinging to the trunk, made a slip with one hind foot, which for
a moment, with the leg, hung down; and a peccary, leaping up at it,
inflicted a slight gash. This seemed to determine the jaguar, for getting
to its feet on the trunk, with a fierce roar, he took a rapid glance
round the ring, and fronting the part where it seemed thinnest, crouched
and then leaped suddenly out—a tremendous bound; but he did not succeed
in clearing the circle. He fell amongst his enemies, several of whom,
with fierce squeals, leaped up at him, and gashed him whilst yet in the
air. For a moment it seemed as though he would struggle through; the next
he was down, and the herd closed over him like the sea upon a yellow
sandbank. From the mêlée came choked roars, and sometimes agonised as
well as angry squealings, which, no less than the violent heaving motion
above a certain central point, showed that a desperate struggle was still
going on. But the jaguar was never seen again—only the wild tide of
pigs, straining and struggling against each other, each eager to become
a personal agent in the common act of death, the outer ones leaping on
the backs of their companions in their anxiety to get within striking
distance, whilst, ever and anon, one would appear struggling up from
the confused tumbling mass at the centre of action, as though to avoid
suffocation or urged by unbearable pain. These had to run down over the
rest, and so join the outer circle, so closely were they packed; whilst
one that appeared badly wounded was, for some time, tossed about on the
unstable platform of its friends’ bodies, whilst lying struggling on its
side.
At length all was over, though it was long before the jaguar ceased
to struggle, and still longer before the peccaries trotted off. On
repairing, then, to the scene of the occurrence, the fortunate spectators
of it found eleven dead or dying peccaries, lying in an irregular circle
on the ground, and, scattered amidst them, the shredded skin and torn
and mangled carcase of the jaguar, which as an anatomic whole might be
said to have disappeared; with such vindictive ferocity had its small
but savage enemies continued to assault it, long after life had become
extinct. The account, if I remember, goes still farther than this, but,
not having it at hand, I will not risk repeating inaccurately a statement
which might seem to some, very remarkable. One should, however, remember
that our domestic pigs are omnivorous, or nearly so, and it would not be
particularly surprising if they inherited this quality from their savage
ancestry.
This incident of the peccaries and jaguar affords a good illustration of
the familiar adage that union is strength, for individually the boldest
of these fierce little pigs would fall an easy prey to their redoubtable
enemy, as may be gathered from the havoc he was able to make amongst
them, even when surrounded and almost smothered by their numbers. It
may be said, however, that under similar circumstances a tiger could,
probably, account for several of the big wild boars of India, though he
may occasionally be driven off, or even wounded to the death, by one
alone. The pressed mass of bodies, unable through their own numbers to
retreat or guard themselves, must offer fatal facilities to the teeth and
claws of a creature capable of using them with effect, almost up to the
moment of death itself. It is conceivable, therefore, that even a single
full-grown male peccary might, for some time, hold a jaguar at bay, if he
were not taken by him unawares. This, however, the jaguar almost always
contrives to do; and indeed it is essential that he should, and also have
a stronghold to retreat to, since it is but seldom that a peccary is
found alone.
The jaguar’s stronghold is a tree, and his _modus operandi_, when a herd
of peccaries come trotting through the forest, as follows. Stealing
cautiously through the underbrush, he marks the direction in which the
herd are going, and then climbs a tree in their line of march. Crawling
out upon one of the lower boughs, he waits till one passes underneath
it, and then, leaping on its back, dislocates the neck by a rapid wrench
round of it with his paw, and bounds into the tree again, leaving it dead
on the ground. The ill-fated animal’s companions rush up, excited and
irritated, and vengefully surround the tree. The jaguar, however, within
the ample domain of a large forest tree—for such he will have chosen—is
entirely at home, and being, moreover, hardly discernible amidst the
foliage and creepers, has seldom to stand a long siege. The restless
little pigs, tired of inactivity and not having their anger whetted by
the sight, and near proximity, of their enemy, soon go off, leaving
their dead companion where it was slain; upon which the jaguar descends,
and feasts upon it at his leisure. This is the account given by the
inhabitants of Brazil and Central America of the way in which the jaguar
procures a dinner of pork, nor, since it is in itself probable and in
accordance with the habits of the animal, is there any reason to doubt it.
It need not be supposed, however, that the peccary must always pass just
under the chosen bough, so that the jaguar can leap directly down upon
it. This, no doubt, would be the ideal state of things, but it is not
always, or, indeed, often, that things come up to one’s ideal. Failing
this, no doubt, the jaguar would drop to the ground as near the peccary
as he could manage, and develop a closer intimacy afterwards. A rapid
bound or two, and with a growl or murderous roar, the “yellow peril”
would be upon him, nor would his own pigtail avail him aught—caught
unawares, all would soon be over. Still, even under these less favourable
conditions, a wary member of the herd might, sometimes, save itself by
making a dash to its nearest companions, or even, perhaps, in the case
of a stout old boar, by resisting till these had run up. In wild nature
there is continual competition between the attacking species and the
one attacked by it, both attaining, by this means, to the perfection of
aptitude in opposed directions.