IN THE SWAMPS ON THE GUAS NGISHU. BEATING FOR LIONS WE CAME UPON A
STRANGE AND FASCINATING WILD BEAST, WHICH BECAME ATTACHED TO OUR PARTY.
THE LITTLE WANDEROBO DOG
One of the most exciting phases of African hunting is the beating of
swamps for lion. A long skirmish line of native porters is sent in at
one end of the swamp and, like a gigantic comb, sweeps every live thing
ahead of it as it advances through the reeds. All kinds of swamp life
are stirred into action, and a fairly large swamp will yield forth the
contents of a pretty respectable menagerie. Sometimes a hyena or two
will be flushed and once in a while a lion will be driven out.
It is the constant expectation of the last-named animal that gives such
keen and long sustained interest to the work of beating a swamp. One
never knows what to expect. A suspicious stir in the reeds may mean a
lion or only a hyena; an enormous crashing may sound like a herd of
elephants, but finally resolve itself into a badly frightened reedbuck.
Most of the time you expect reedbuck, but all the time you have to be
ready for lion. As a general thing a lion will slink along in the reeds
ahead of the beaters and not reveal himself until he is driven to the
end of the cover. Then he will grunt warningly or show an ear or a
lashing tail above the reeds, and instantly every one is in a state of
intense expectancy. What the next move will be no one knows, but it is
more than likely to be something of a supremely dramatic sort.
One day we were beating swamps on the Guas Ngishu Plateau. Lions seemed
to be numerous in that district. Two days before I had killed two lions
near by, and during the morning Stephenson and I had each killed a
lioness in the same line of marshy reed beds. We now intended advancing
to the next large swamp of the chain and see whether a large,
black-maned lion might not be routed out.
Conditions seemed propitious, for in this selfsame swamp Colonel
Roosevelt had seen the best lion of his trip some weeks before. Perhaps
the lion might still be there.
The campaign was planned with great thoroughness. Forty or fifty porters
were formed into the customary skirmish line and on each side we
paralleled the beaters with our rifles. At the word of command the
column began to advance and the interest reached a fever heat. The swamp
was five or six hundred yards long, and for the first three hundred
yards nothing of a thrilling sort occurred. The shouts of the beaters
blended into a rhythmic, melodious chant and the swish of their sticks
as they thrashed the reeds was enough to make even the king of beasts
apprehensive.
[Photograph: Abdi, the Somali Head-man]
[Photograph: Along the Nzoia River]
[Photograph: Beating a Swamp for Lions]
Over on my side of the swamp there was a wide extension of dry reeds and
bushes through which I was obliged to go in order to keep in touch with
the skirmish line of porters. We had got three-quarters the full length
of the swamp and any moment might reasonably expect to hear from a lion
if there was one ahead of us. Every rifle was at readiness and the
porters were advancing less impetuously. In fact, they were pretending
to go forward without doing so.
Suddenly a wild shout from a porter near by, then a hurried retreat of
other porters, and then a cautious advance gave sign that something
desperate was about to happen. We caught a glimpse of reeds moving about
and then saw something crouched in the grass beneath. Two ears were
finally distinguished among the tangle of rushes, and there was no
further doubt about it. It was not a lion. It wasn't even a hyena.
It was a little dog. His presence in the middle of that swamp was about
as logical as if he had been a musk-ox or a walrus. However, there he
was, gazing up at us from the bulrushes, with mild, friendly eyes and a
little tail that was poised for wagging at the slightest provocation. He
was instantly christened "Moses" for obvious reasons. Later the name was
changed to Mosina, also for obvious reasons.
After the line of porters had regained their composure the lion beat
continued, but no lion appeared. The sum total of the wild beasts
yielded by that promising swamp was one (1) little black and tan dog
with white feet.
[Drawing: _It Was Not a Lion_]
Some of our genealogical experts addressed themselves to the task of
figuring out the why and wherefore of little Mosina and what in the
world she was doing out in a lion and leopard infested place. Leopards
in particular are fond of dogs, not the way you and I are fond of them,
but in quite a different way. A leopard, so it is said, prefers a dog to
any other food and will take daring chances in an effort to secure one
for breakfast, dinner, or supper. Therefore, how little Mosina escaped
so long is a mystery yet unsolved.
The experts decided after a thorough consideration of the case, viewing
it from all possible angles, that the little dog was a Wanderobo dog.
The Wanderobo are natives who live solely by hunting and generally have
the most primitive sort of a grass hut at the edge of a swamp or deep in
the solitudes of the forest. They put rude honey boxes up in the trees
to serve as beehives, and it is from this honey and from the game that
they kill with their bows and arrows and traps and spears that they
manage to eke out a meager living.
Like all true hunters, they keep dogs, and it is more than likely that
little Mosina was the ex-property of some wild-eyed, naked Wanderobo who
lived in the swamp. When our great crowd of noisy beaters appeared at
the other end of the swamp the Wanderobo had doubtless crawled out of
his hole and made off for the nearest tall grass. In going he had left
behind Mosina as a rear-guard to cover his retreat or to stay the
invaders' advance until he could reach the nearest spot available to a
hasty man.
So we adopted this theory as to why Mosina was in the bulrushes, and in
honor of her Wanderobo associations we again changed her name to "Little
Wanderobo Dog." So far as I know, she is the only dog in history who has
had three separate and distinct names within two hours. Of course, there
are people who have called dogs more than three different names in much
less time, but they were not Christian names. One of the bachelor
members of the committee, who is known to be a woman-hater, conferred
the honorary title of the pronoun "he" on Little Wanderobo Dog, and she
has been "he" ever since. But not without a bitter fight by those of the
committee who think the pronoun "she" is infinitely more to be admired.
Little Wanderobo Dog did not wait to be adopted. He adopted us, but not
ostentatiously at first--just a friendly wag here and there to show that
he had at last found what he was looking for. By degrees he became more
friendly and genial, so that at the end of an hour he was thoroughly one
of us.
I have never seen a milder-eyed dog than Little Wanderobo. Innocence and
guilelessness struggled for supremacy, with "confidence in strangers" a
close third. You couldn't help liking him, for with those meek and
gentle eyes, together with manners above reproach, he simply walked into
your heart and made himself at home.
I think that we were a good deal of a surprise to him. In all his short
young life he had probably never known anything but kicks and cuffs.
When he met a stranger he naturally expected to have something thrown at
him, or to have a stubby toe or hard sandal projected into his side.
Imagine his wonderment to find people who actually petted him and played
with him. At first he didn't know how to play, but it was amazing to see
how fast he learned. He was ready to play with any and all comers at any
and all times. You could arouse him from a deep slumber and he would be
ready to engage in any form of gaiety at a second's notice.
They talk about "charm." Some people have it to a wonderful degree. You
like them the minute you meet them, and often don't really know why.
Perhaps because you simply can't help it. Well, that was the chief
characteristic of Little Wanderobo Dog. He had more charm than anything
I've ever met, and so it is only natural that he should have walked into
our affections in the most natural, unaffected sort of way.
I don't know what he thought of us, but I really believe that he thought
he had gone to Heaven. We fed him and played with him, and finally he
gained a little assurance, and actually barked. He barked at one of our
roosters, and then we knew that he considered himself past the probation
stage. He had confidence enough to assert himself in a series of lusty
barks without fearing a hostile boot or an angry shout. The first time
he barked we all rushed out of our tents in wonder and admiration. It
was the most important event of the day, and it caused a great deal of
talk of a friendly nature.
There was one umbrageous cloud on Little Wanderobo Dog's horizon,
however--a cloud that he soon learned to evade. The Mohammedans didn't
like him. It is a part of their creed to hate dogs almost as much as
pork, and to be touched by a dog means many prayers to Allah to wipe
away the stain of contact. But Little Wanderobo Dog was not conversant
with the Mohammedan creed at first, and in his gladness and joy of life
he embraced everybody in the waves of affection and friendliness that
radiated from him like a golden aura.
The Somali gunbearers were disciples of Allah, and they began to kick at
him before he was within eight feet of them. Two of the tent boys were
also Mohammedans, but they had to be more circumspect in their
hostility. Whenever Little Wanderobo Dog came around they would edge
away, which gave the former a certain sense of importance because it was
flattering to have a number of grown-up men fear him so much. Then there
were a number of the porters who were Mohammedans of a sort, but these
were wont to say, "O, what is a creed among friends?"
It was quite cold up on the plateau at night. Sometimes the wind swept
down from the distant fringe of mountains and shook the tents until the
tent pegs jumped out of the ground. The night guard would pile more wood
on the big central camp-fire near our tents and the porters, in their
eighteen or twenty little tents, would huddle closer together for
warmth. They were nights for at least three blankets, and even four were
not too many.
Consequently Little Wanderobo Dog was confronted by the necessity of
adopting a place to sleep where he would be safe from those sharp arrows
of the north wind that swept across the high stretches of the plateau.
So he ingratiated himself into my tent with many friendly wags of his
tail and a countenance of such benign faith in human nature that he was
allowed to remain. At many times in the night I was awakened and I knew
that Little Wanderobo Dog was dreaming about some wicked swamp ogre that
was trying to kick him.
At first he was not a silent sleeper, but later on these awful
nightmares came with less frequency and I presume his dreams took on a
more beatific character. As a watch-dog I don't believe he had great
value, because of his readiness to make friends with anything and
anybody. If a leopard had come into the tent he would have said, "Excuse
me, but I think you are in the wrong place," but he would never have
barked or conducted himself in an ungentlemanly way.
One could never tell what was likely to come into one's tent at night,
even with armed askaris patrolling the camp all night long. One cold
night, before Little Wanderobo Dog had come to live with us, I was
awakened by a curious rustle of the tent flaps. I listened and then
watched the tent flap for some moments, thinking that the wind might
have been responsible. But there was no wind and it seemed beyond doubt
that some animal had entered.
For a long time I listened, but could hear nothing; and yet at the same
time I had a positive conviction that I was not alone in the tent. I
wondered if it could be a leopard, or some small member of the cat
tribe. I knew that it wasn't a dog, for there were no dogs anywhere in
the vicinity of the camp. As the minutes went by without any hostile
move from the darkness, I decided to let whatever it was stay until it
got ready to depart. So I went to sleep.
Once more in the night I was awakened by a noise in the tent and as
nearly as I could diagnose the situation, the noise came from under my
cot. But, I reasoned, if the animal is there, it's behaving itself and
if it were on mischief bent it would have transacted its business long
before. So I went to sleep again.
Just at dawn the clarion crow of a rooster came from under my bed. It
was one of the roosters the cook had bought from a Boer settler and had
come in to escape the coldness of the night air without. It was a most
agreeable surprise, for there was a homelike sound in the crow of the
rooster that was pleasantly reminiscent of the banks of the Wabash far
away.
After Little Wanderobo Dog became "acclimated" to the warm and friendly
atmosphere of hospitality of the camp, he began to show evidences of
tact and diplomacy. He bestowed his attentions, with unerring
impartiality to all of us. In the evening, and frequently during the
day, he would pay ceremonial visits to each of the four tents of the
_msungu_, as the white people are called. First he would approach the
threshold of one tent, cock an inquiring ear at the occupant, and upon
receiving the customary sign of welcome would wag himself in and pay his
respects. After a short call he would wag his way out and call at the
next tent, where the same performance was repeated.
[Drawing: _A Ceremonial Call_]
He never burst into a place like a cyclone of happiness, but rather, he
sort of oozed in and oozed out, his mild brown eyes brimming with
gentleness and his tail, that eloquent insignia of canine gladness,
wigwagging messages of good cheer.
In one of the tents of the _msungu_ there was a pet monkey. It had been
captured down on the Tana River months before and at first was wild and
vicious. As time went by it lost much of its wildness and to those it
liked was affectionate and friendly. To all others it presented variable
moods, sometimes friendly and sometimes unexpectedly and unreasonably
hostile. We feared that Little Wanderobo Dog would have some bad moments
with the little Tana River monkey, and their first meeting was awaited
with keen interest. We thought the monkey would scratch all the
gentleness out of the Little Wanderobo Dog's eyes and that the two
animals would become bitter enemies.
But nothing of the sort happened. Little Wanderobo Dog managed the
matter with rare tact. He succeeded in slowly overcoming the monkey's
prejudices, then in inspiring confidence, and finally in establishing
play relations. It was worth a good deal to see the dog and monkey
playing together, the latter scampering down from his tent-pole aery,
leaping on the dog, and scampering hurriedly over the latter, with a
quick retreat to the invulnerable heights of the tent-pole. Little
Wanderobo Dog would allow the monkey to roam at will over his features
and anatomy, thereby showing tolerance which I thought impossible for
any animal to show. After Little Wanderobo Dog had paid his devoirs to
his host, which he did each day with great punctiliousness, he would
then retire to some sunny spot and enjoy his siesta. He was great on
siestas and usually had several each day.
[Drawing: _The Entente Cordiale_]
In time he learned to distinguish between Mohammedans and other
dark-complexioned people and held himself aloof from the former, thereby
escaping any humiliating races with the heavy boots of the gunbearers
and other followers of Allah. He made friends with little Ali, the
monkey's valet, a small Swahili boy who looked like a chocolate drop in
color, and like a tooth-powder ad in disposition. It was Ali's duty to
carry the monkey on our marches.
The little gray monkey, with its venerable looking black face fringed
with a sunburst of white hair, would be tied to an old umbrella of the
Sairey Gamp pattern, and would sit upon it as the small boy carried it
along the trails on his shoulder, like a musket. Sometimes when the sun
was strong the umbrella would be raised to shield the monkey's eyes,
which could not stand the fierce glare incident to a long march upon
sun-baked trails. At such times the monkey, who rejoiced in the brief
name of J.T. Jr.--the same being emblazoned on the little silver collar
around its neck--at such times the monkey would scamper from shoulder to
shoulder of the small boy, with occasional excursions up in the woolly
kinks of the heights above. It was a funny picture and one that never
failed to amuse those who watched it.
Well, Little Wanderobo Dog, by some prescient instinct hardly to be
expected in one brought up in a swamp, decided that little Ali and the
monkey were to be his "companions of the march." So, when the tents were
struck and Abdi, the head-man, shouted "_Funga nizigo yaka!_" and the
tented city of yesterday became a scattered heap of sixty-pound porters'
loads, Little Wanderobo would seek out Ali and prepare to bear him
company during the long stretches of the march. And then when the long
line of horsemen, native soldiers, porters, tent boys, gunbearers, ox
gharries, and all began to wind their sinuous way over veldt or through
forest, there was none in the line more picturesque than Ali and J.T.
Jr. surrounded by the affable Little Wanderobo Dog.
[Photograph: Being Posed for a Post Mortem Picture]
[Photograph: By courtesy of W.D. Boyce. The Triumvirate]
[Drawing: _The Three Comrades_]
It is little wonder that friendship soon ripened into love, and that we
all became speedily and irrevocably attached to the little swamp angel.
His presence in any gathering was like a benediction of good cheer, and
when his tail was in full swing he looked like a golden jubilee. As I
say, it was no wonder we liked him, and I think I may also say, without
flattering ourselves, that the sentiment was reciprocated. I don't
believe the joy he showed at all times could have been assumed. It must
have been pure joy, without alloy.
His table manners were above reproach. He would, never grab or show
unseemly greed. He awaited our pleasure and each bone or chop that fell
his way was received with every token of mute but eloquent gratitude.
You were constantly made to feel that he loved you for yourself and not
for what he hoped you would give him. If I were to be wrecked on a
desert island, I believe there is hardly more than one person that I'd
prefer to have as my sole companion than Little Wanderobo Dog.
Perhaps a few words about the architecture of the little dog might not
come amiss. He was built somewhat on the lines of the German
renaissance, being low and rakish like a dachshund, but with just a
little more freeboard than the dachshund. His legs were straight instead
of bowed, as are those of his distinguished German cousin. His ears were
hardly as pendulous, being rather more trenchant than pendulous, and
therefore more mobile in action. His tail was facile and retroussé, with
a lateral swing of about a foot and an indicated speed of seventeen
hundred to the minute. When you add to these many charms, those mild
eyes, surcharged with love light, and a bark as sweet as the bark of the
frangipanni tree and as cheerful as the song of the meadow-lark, you may
realize some of the estimable qualities that distinguished Little
Wanderobo Dog.
For some weeks he stayed with us, Tray-like in his faithfulness, and
always in the vanguard when danger threatened the rear. One day our
caravan passed through a group of migrating Wanderobos. There were a
dozen or so of men, all armed with spears and bows and arrows; also
fifteen or twenty women, thirty or forty _totos_, and about a score of
dogs.
Here was the test. Would Little Wanderobo Dog, reclaimed from the swamp,
harken to the call of the blood and join the band of his own kind? If he
did, we could only bow our heads in grief and submission, for after all
were not we only foster friends and not blood relations? But Little
Wanderobo Dog never wavered in his allegiance to us. He had planted his
lance by our colors and with these he would stick till death.
He passed those other Wanderobo dogs as if they were creatures from
another world. If he felt tempted to join his fellow dogs, there was no
indication of it, and at night when we reached our camp we found our
faithful follower at his accustomed post, stanch, firm and true to his
colors, which were black and tan.
But alas, there comes a time when the best of friends must part. And the
dark day came when I saw Little Wanderobo Dog for the last time. It was
at Escarpment. Our long months of hunting were over. Our horses and
porters and all our equipment were on the train bound for Nairobi, where
we were to settle our affairs and leave Africa and its happy hunting
ground. Little Wanderobo Dog had been let out of his first-class
compartment in the train and was running up and down the platform,
wigwagging messages of gladness with his tail and sniffing friends and
strangers with dog-like curiosity. Some friends of ours were at the
train to say howdy-do and to shake our hands, and with these the little
dog was soon on friendly terms.
When the train whistle blew and the bell was rung and some more whistles
blew and more bells were rung, Little Wanderobo Dog was taken back into
his car. The last good-bys were said and we were off for Nairobi.
Suddenly there was a startled cry, a whisk of a tail, and the dog was
gone--out of the car window. He lit on his nose, but as far back as we
could see he sat in the middle of the next track and gazed at the
receding train. Two days later Mrs. Tarlton came down from Escarpment
and said that she had rescued the dog and that he was installed in the
hospitable home of Mrs. Hampson, where he would remain until he rejoined
those members of our party who were to remain in Africa some months
longer. It is likely that Little Wanderobo Dog may be taken on a great
elephant hunt in Uganda and, who knows, some time he may visit America.
I hope so, for I'd like to give him a dinner.
[Drawing: _Our Last View_]