HUNTER
"The longest march seems short," says Baden-Powell, "when one is
hunting game." Many a time, when he has been marching either alone or
with troops, his clothes in tatters, his shoes soleless, and his mouth
as dry as a saucer licked by a cat, many and many a time has he got
out from under the impending shadow of depression, out into the open
sunlight with his rifle,--to forget all about hunger and thirst in
matching his wits against nature's. This kind of wild sport has an
absorbing interest for Baden-Powell. What he would say if invited to
hunt a tame deer, lifted by human arms out of a cart, kicked away from
playing with the hounds and pushed and beaten into an astonished and
bewildered gallop, neither you nor I must pretend to know; but for
that kind of "sport" it is very certain he would express no such
enthusiasm as he does for the keen, wild, dangerous sport of the
legitimate hunter. He will not seek the destruction of any quarry that
is not worthy of his steel; he likes to go against that quarry where
there are obstacles and dangers for him, and opportunities of escape
for the creature he pursues. He is a sportsman, not a butcher;
mole-catching never stirred the blood in his veins.
And while he is hunting animals he is educating himself as a scout.
His whole attention becomes riveted on the game he is pursuing; he
studies the spoor, takes account of the nature of the country, and
makes a note in his mind of any observations likely to be of service
during a campaign in that kind of country. It is not the work of
destruction itself that makes Baden-Powell a keen sportsman.
In the midst of the Matabele war, just as the weary, half-starved
horses which had carried his men eighty-seven miles drew near the
stronghold of Wedza, Baden-Powell was exhilarated by a meeting with a
lion. In his diary against that date he wrote: "To be marked with a
red mark when I can get a red pencil." The incident is well related
in his diary and is a characteristic of B.-P. It runs: "Jackson and a
native boy accompanied me scouting this morning; we three started off
at three in the morning, so that by dawn we were in sight of one of
the hills we expected might be occupied by Paget, and where we hoped
to see his fires. We saw none there; but on our way, in moving round
the hill which overlooks our camp, we saw a match struck high up near
the top of the mountain. This one little spark told us a great deal.
It showed that the enemy were there; that they were awake and alert (I
say 'they,' because one nigger would not be up there by himself in the
dark); and that they were aware of our force being at Possett's (as,
otherwise, they would not be occupying that hill). However, they could
not see anything of us, as it was then quite dark; and we went farther
on among the mountains. In the early morning light we crossed the deep
river-bed of the Umchingwe River, and, in doing so, we noticed the
fresh spoor of a lion in the sand. We went on, and had a good look at
the enemy's stronghold; and on our way back, as we approached this
river-bed, we agreed to go quietly, in case the lion should be moving
about in it. On looking down over the bank, my heart jumped into my
mouth when I saw a grand old brute just walking in behind a bush.
Jackson could not see him, but was off his horse as quick as I was,
and ready with his gun; too ready, indeed, for the moment that the
lion appeared, walking majestically out from behind the bush that had
hidden him, Jackson fired hurriedly, striking the ground under his
foot, and, as we afterwards discovered, knocking off one of his claws.
The lion tossed up his shaggy head and looked at us in dignified
surprise. Then I fired and hit him in the ribs with a leaden bullet
from my Lee-Metford. He reeled, sprang round, and staggered a few
paces, when Jackson, who was firing a Martini-Henry, let him have one
in the shoulder; this knocked him over sideways, and he turned about,
growling savagely. I could scarcely believe that we had actually got a
lion at last, but resolved to make sure of it; so, telling Jackson not
to fire unless it was necessary (for fear of spoiling the skin with
the larger bullet of the Martini), I got down closer to the beast, and
fired a shot at the back of his neck as he turned his head away from
me. This went through his spine, and came out through the lower jaw,
killing him dead."
It was during the Matabele campaign that Baden-Powell came across a
fine wild boar, which, he remarks, caused quite a flutter in his
breast. "'If I only had you in the open, my friend,' thought I. 'If
only you had a horse that was fit enough to come anywhere near me,'
grinned he. And so we parted." A graphic incident.
It is in hunting the wild boar that Baden-Powell has a universal
reputation as a sportsman. He is good, very good, at all sports, but
it is as a pig-sticker that he excels, and stands out clear-cut from
the rest. And pig-sticking is the sport of all sports which entail the
killing of animals in which we could wish him to excel. Hear Major
Moray Brown on the subject of fox _versus_ pig: "You cannot compare
the two sports together. To begin with, in fox-hunting you are
dependent on 'scent.' Granted the excitement of a fast burst over a
grass country, and that you are well carried by your horse, the
end--what is it? A poor little fox worried by at least forty times its
number of hounds. Has he a chance, bar his cunning, of baffling his
pursuers? No. Now, how different is the chase of the boar of India!
There you must depend on _yourself_ in every way, and at the end your
quarry meets you on nearly fair and equal terms." Let it be remembered
that the boar is an animal of great reputation among beasts. It is a
well-ascertained fact, says Baden-Powell, that of all animals the boar
does not fear to drink at the same pool with a tiger; nay, a case is
on record of his having taken his drink with a tiger on each side of
him. In his book on pig-sticking Baden-Powell quotes an exciting
description of a battle between a tiger and a boar, a battle which
will give English readers a vivid idea of the boar's pluck and
doggedness. The narrative is as follows: "When the boar saw the tiger
the latter roared. But the old boar did not seem to mind the roar so
very much as might have been anticipated. He actually repeated his
'hoo! hoo!' only in a, if possible, more aggressive, insulting, and
defiant manner. Nay, more, such was his temerity that he actually
advanced with a short, sharp rush in the direction of the striped
intruder. Intently peering through the indistinct light, we eagerly
watched the development of this strange _rencontre_. The tiger was
now crouching low, crawling stealthily round and round the boar, who
changed front with every movement of his lithe and sinewy adversary,
keeping his determined head and sharp, deadly tusks ever facing his
stealthy and treacherous foe. The bristles of the boar's back were up
at a right angle from the strong spine. The wedge-shaped head poised
on the strong neck and thick rampart of muscular shoulder was bent
low, and the whole attitude of the body betokened full alertness and
angry resoluteness. In their circlings the two brutes were now nearer
to each other and nearer to us, and thus we could mark every movement
with greater precision. The tiger was now growling and showing his
teeth; and all this, that takes such a time to tell, was but the work
of a few short minutes. Crouching now still lower, till he seemed
almost flat on the ground, and gathering his sinewy limbs beneath his
lithe, lean body, he suddenly startled the stillness with a loud roar,
and quick as lightning sprang upon the boar. For a brief minute the
struggle was thrilling in its intense excitement. With one swift,
dexterous sweep of the strong, ready paw, the tiger fetched the boar
a terrific slap right across the jaw, which made the strong beast
reel; but with a hoarse grunt of resolute defiance, with two or three
sharp digs of the strong head and neck, and swift, cutting blows of
the cruel, gashing tusks, he seemed to make a hole or two in the
tiger's coat, marking it with more stripes than Nature had ever
painted there; and presently both combatants were streaming with gore.
The tremendous buffet of the sharp claws had torn flesh and skin away
from off the boar's cheek and forehead, leaving a great ugly flap
hanging over his face and half blinding him. The pig was now on his
mettle. With another hoarse grunt he made straight for the tiger, who
very dexterously eluded the charge, and, lithe and quick as a cat
after a mouse, doubled almost on itself, and alighted clean on the
boar's back, inserting his teeth above the shoulders, tearing with his
claws, and biting out great mouthfuls of flesh from the quivering
carcase of his maddened antagonist. He seemed now to be having all the
best of it, so much so that the boar discreetly stumbled and fell
forward, whether by accident or design I know not, but the effect was
to bring the tiger clean over his head, sprawling clumsily on the
ground. I almost shouted 'Aha, now you have him!' for the tables were
turned. Getting his forefeet on the tiger's prostrate carcase, the
boar now gave two or three short, ripping gashes with his strong white
tusks, almost disembowelling his foe, and then exhausted seemingly by
the effort, apparently giddy and sick, he staggered aside and lay
down, panting and champing his tusks, but still defiant with his head
to the foe." But the tiger, too, was sick unto death, and the end of
this battle-royal was that he who saw it emptied the contents of both
his barrels into the two stricken belligerents, and put them out of
their agony.
[Illustration: "Beetle."]
It is against such a fierce, resolute, and well-armed enemy that
Baden-Powell loves to match his strength and cunning. Mounted on his
little fourteen-hand Waler, in pith solar topee, grey Norfolk jacket,
light cords, and brown blucher boots, and grasping in his hand his
deadly seventy-inch spear, he goes forth to slay the wild boar, with
all the feelings of romance and knightliness which some people think
vanished from the world when Excalibur sank in the Lake of Lyonnesse.
It is a battle whereof no man need be ashamed; in which only the
strong man can glory. Many a time has the wild boar hurled his great
head and mountainous shoulders against the forelegs of a horse,
bringing the hunter to the ground for mortal combat on foot. Many a
time has the novice, who went out as gaily and contemptuously as the
fox-hunter, returned to his bungalow cut and gored on a stretcher. He
who goes up against the wild boar must, in Baden-Powell's words, "have
matured not only the 'pluck' which brings a man into a desperate
situation, but that 'nerve' which enables him to carry the crisis to a
successful issue."
When Baden-Powell returned to India from Afghanistan in 1882, he
became an enthusiastic pig-sticker (for reasons which we shall give in
our chapter on Scouting), and during that year he killed no fewer than
thirty-one pigs. In the following year he killed forty-two, and won
the blue-ribbon of hog-hunting--the Kadir Cup. Two years afterwards he
wrote and illustrated the standard book on pig-sticking (published by
Messrs. Harrison and Sons), which is as famous a book in India as Mr.
H.S. Thomas's delightful books on fishing.
Hunting the boar takes place early in the morning and again in the
evening, so that men find themselves with nothing to do for the
greater part of the day. This time is usually spent in the tent
sketching, dozing, and reading, with occasional "goes" of claret cup.
But it is characteristic of Baden-Powell that he should give useful
advice concerning these waste hours. "If you prefer not to waste this
time altogether," he says, "it is a good practice to take a few books
and dictionary of any foreign language you may wish to be learning."
Again, his character as a thoughtful man may be seen in the warning he
gives novices against ill-treating villagers, or allowing the shikaris
to do so. "Shouting and cursing at a coolie already dumbfoundered at
the very sight of a white man is not the way to clear his
understanding." His remark that native servants under cover of their
master's prestige will frequently tyrannise over the villagers reminds
me of a story which I cannot forbear to tell. A bridge had been thrown
over a river in some outlandish part of India, and his work done, the
Englishman in charge was returning to more civilised regions. Just
before turning his back on the scene of his labours he inquired of a
villager whether he was pleased with the bridge. The man expressed
voluble admiration for the sahib's great skill, but lamented the high
toll that was charged for crossing the bridge. "Toll!" exclaimed the
Briton, "why, there's no toll at all; the bridge is free to
everybody." But the native still protesting that a charge was made,
and saying that a notice to that effect was written up in big English
letters, the engineer went down to the bridge himself to investigate
the mystery. There he discovered his own servant sitting at the
receipt of custom, with a flaming advertisement of Beecham's Pills
pasted on to a board over his head, to which he pointed as his
authority when questioned by rebellious natives.
Baden-Powell tells an amusing story of an impromptu boar hunt. "At a
grand field-day at Delhi, in the presence of all the foreign
delegates, in 1885, a boar suddenly appeared upon the scene and
charged a Horse Artillery gun, effectually stopping it in its advance
at a gallop by throwing down two of the horses. The headquarters staff
and the foreign officers were spectators of this deed, and hastened to
sustain the credit of the Army by seizing lances from their orderlies
and dashing off in pursuit of the boar, who was now cantering off to
find more batteries on which to work his sweet will. The staff,
however, were too quick for him, and, after a good run and fight, he
fell a victim to their attentions, amidst a chorus of _vivas_,
_sacrés_, and _houplas_."
The pig is a born fighter. From his early infancy he learns the use of
butting, and perceives, at an age when civilised piggies are just
beginning to root up one's orchard, that his growing tusks are meant
for other uses than those of mere captivation. Little "squeakers" have
been watched by B.-P. having a regular set-to together, while the
older members of their family sat in a pugilistic ring grinning
encouragement. Once Baden-Powell managed to secure a baby pig, and
kept him in his compound, just as he had kept rabbits and guinea-pigs
in England. To watch this squeaker practising "jinking" from a tree
("jinking" is "pig-sticking" for jibbing), and charging ferociously at
an old stump, was one of our hero's pet amusements for many weeks.
Although dogs are not regularly used in hunting the wild boar they are
sometimes employed for scouting in a particularly thick jungle, and
Baden-Powell frequently went to work of this kind with a half-bred
fox-terrier. He regards as one of the joys of true sport the bending
of animals' wills to his own, and while in this respect the horse
ranks highest in his estimation, he is always glad to work with a keen
dog. Beetle, the fox-terrier, was just such a dog as Baden-Powell
would like; he was quick, full of intelligence, a complete stranger to
fear, and moreover he had an individuality of his own. When B.-P.
started off for the haunt of his quarry, Beetle would sit with an air
of great dignity in the front of the saddle, keeping a sharp look-out
for signs of pig. At a likely spot the little dog would jump nimbly
from the saddle and plunge boldly into the jungle. Then a sharp yap
would reach the ears of B.-P., then a smothered growl, a crashing of
twigs and branches, and at last, with a floundering dash, out came the
boar, struggling into his stride with Beetle at his heels. "In the run
which followed," says Baden-Powell, "the little dog used to tail along
after the hunt, and, straining every sense of sight and hearing as
well as of smell to keep to the line, always managed to be in at the
death, in time to hang on to the ear of a charging boar, or to apply
himself to the back end of one who preferred sulking in a bush." And
in the end it was a change of climate, at Natal, that killed the
gallant-hearted Beetle. He died with a tattered ear, a drooping
eyelid, an enlarged foot, and twelve scars on his game little
body--all honourable mementos of innumerable fights with the dreaded
boar.
As showing Baden-Powell's prowess as a hunter we may mention some of
the stuffed animals in the hall of his mother's house, all of which
have fallen to our hero: Black Bucks, Ravine Deer, Gnu, Inyala, Eland,
Jackal, Black Bear, Hippopotamus (a huge skull), Lion, Tiger, and Hog
Deer.