he had done something which would in his mind justify the expedition
and relieve it from the danger of being a fiasco. In Africa he wished
to get at least one specimen each of the four great prizes--the
lion, the elephant, the buffalo, and the rhinoceros. It was the lion
for which he was most keen--and which he also felt was the most
problematical. Luck was with us, and we had not been hunting many
days before father’s ambition was fulfilled. It was something that
he had long desired--indeed it is the pinnacle of most hunters’
ambitions--so it was a happy cavalcade that rode back to camp in the
wake of the natives that were carrying the lioness slung on a long
pole. The blacks were chanting a native song of triumph, and father
was singing “Whack-fa-lal for Lannigan’s Ball,” as a sort of “chant
pagan.”
[Illustration: Putting the tape on a tusker
Reading from left to right: unknown gun-bearer, Kasitura, Father,
Juma Johari, Tarlton, Cuninghame]
Father was more fluent than exact in expressing himself in foreign
languages. As he himself said of his French, he spoke it “as if it
were a non-Aryan tongue, having neither gender nor tense.” He would,
however, always manage to make himself understood, and never seemed
to experience any difficulty in understanding his interlocutor.
In Africa he had a most complicated combination of sign-language
and coined words, and though I could rarely make out what he and
his gun-bearer were talking about, they never appeared to have any
difficulty in understanding each other. Father could read Spanish,
and he had not been in Brazil long before he could make out the trend
of any conversation in Portuguese. With the Brazilians he always
spoke French, or, on rare occasions, German.
He was most conscientious about his writing. Almost every day when
he came in from hunting he would settle down to work on the articles
that were from time to time sent back to _Scribner’s_. This daily
task was far more onerous than any one who has not tried it can
imagine. When you come in from a long day’s tramping, you feel most
uninclined to concentrate on writing a careful and interesting
account of the day’s activities. Father was invariably good-humored
about it, saying that he was paying for his fun. In Brazil when the
mosquitoes and sand-flies were intolerable, he used to be forced to
write swathed in a mosquito veil and with long gauntlets to protect
hands and wrists.
During the descent of the River of Doubt in Brazil there were many
black moments. It was impossible to hazard a guess within a month or
more as to when we would get through to the Amazon. We had dugout
canoes, and when we came to serious rapids or waterfalls we were
forced to cut a trail around to the quiet water below. Then we must
make a corduroy road with the trunks of trees over which to haul the
dugouts. All this took a long time, and in some places where the
river ran through gorges it was almost impossible. We lost in all
six of the ten canoes with which we started, and of course much of
our food-supply and general equipment. It was necessary to delay and
build two more canoes--a doubly laborious task because of the axes
and adzes which had gone down in the shipwrecks. The Brazil nuts upon
which we had been counting to help out our food-supply had had an
off year. If this had not been so we would have fared by no means
badly, for these nuts may be ground into flour or roasted or prepared
in a number of different ways. Another source upon which we counted
failed us when we found that there were scarcely any fish in the
river. For some inexplicable reason many of the tributaries of the
Amazon teem with fish, while others flowing through similar country
and under parallel conditions contain practically none. We went first
onto half rations, and then were forced to still further reduce the
issue. We had only the clothes in which we stood and were wet all day
and slept wet throughout the night. There would be a heavy downpour,
then out would come the sun and we would be steamed dry, only to be
drenched once more a half-hour later.
[Illustration: Launching a newly made dugout on the Dúvida]
Working waist-deep in the water in an attempt to dislodge a canoe
that had been thrown upon some rocks out in the stream, father
slipped, and, of course, it was his weak leg that suffered. Then he
came down with fever, and in his weakened condition was attacked with
a veritable plague of deep abscesses. It can be readily understood
that the entourage and environment were about as unsuitable for
a sick man as any that could be imagined. Nothing but father’s
indomitable spirit brought him through. He was not to be downed by
anything, although he knew well that the chances were against his
coming out. He made up his mind that as long as he could, he would
go along, but that once he could no longer travel, and held up the
expedition, he would arrange for us to go on without him. Of course
he did not at the time tell us this, but he reasoned that with our
very limited supply of provisions, and the impossibility of living
on the country, if the expedition halted it would not only be of no
avail as far as he was concerned, but the chances would be strongly
in favor of no one coming through. With it all he was invariably
cheerful, and in the blackest times ever ready with a joke. Sick as
he was, he gave no one any trouble. He would walk slowly over the
portages, resting every little while, and when the fever was not too
severe we would, when we reached the farther end with the canoes,
find him sitting propped against a tree reading a volume of Gibbon,
or perhaps the Oxford book of verse.
There was one particularly black night; one of our best men had
been shot and killed by a useless devil who escaped into the jungle,
where he was undoubtedly killed by the Indians. We had been working
through a series of rapids that seemed interminable. There would be
a long carry, a mile or so clear going, and then more rapids. The
fever was high and father was out of his head. Doctor Cajazeira, who
was one of the three Brazilians with us, divided with me the watch
during the night. The scene is vivid before me. The black rushing
river with the great trees towering high above along the bank;
the sodden earth under foot; for a few moments the stars would be
shining, and then the sky would cloud over and the rain would fall in
torrents, shutting out sky and trees and river. Father first began
with poetry; over and over again he repeated “In Xanadu did Kubla
Khan a stately pleasure dome decree,” then he started talking at
random, but gradually he centred down to the question of supplies,
which was, of course, occupying every one’s mind. Part of the time he
knew that I was there, and he would then ask me if I thought Cherrie
had had enough to eat to keep going. Then he would forget my presence
and keep saying to himself: “I can’t work now, so I don’t need much
food, but he and Cherrie have worked all day with the canoes, they
must have part of mine.” Then he would again realize my presence and
question me as to just how much Cherrie had had. How good faithful
Cajazeira waked I do not know, but when his watch was due I felt him
tap me on the shoulder, and crawled into my soggy hammock to sleep
the sleep of the dead.
Father’s courage was an inspiration never to be forgotten by any of
us; without a murmur he would lie while Cajazeira lanced and drained
the abscesses. When we got down beyond the rapids the river widened
so that instead of seeing the sun through the canyon of the trees for
but a few hours each day, it hung above us all the day like a molten
ball and broiled us as if the river were a grid on which we were made
fast. To a sick man it must have been intolerable.
It is when one is sick that one really longs for home. Lying
in a hammock all unwashed and unshaven, suffocating beneath a
mosquito-net, or tortured by mosquitoes and sand-flies when one
raises the net to let in a breath of air--it is then that one dreams
of clean pajamas and cool sheets and iced water. I have often heard
father say when he was having a bout of fever at home, that it was
almost a pleasure to be ill, particularly when you thought of all the
past discomforts of fever in the wilds.
Father’s disappointment at not being able to take a physical part
in the war--as he has said, “to pay with his body for his soul’s
desire”--was bitter. Strongly as he felt about going, I doubt if
his disappointment was much more keen than that of the British
and French statesmen and generals, who so readily realized what
his presence would mean to the Allied cause, and more than once
requested in Washington that he be sent. Marshal Joffre made such
a request in person, meeting with the usual evasive reply. Father
took his disappointment as he had taken many another in his life,
without letting it harm his usefulness, or discourage his aggressive
energy. “In the fell clutch of circumstance he did not wince or cry
aloud.” Indeed, the whole of Henley’s poem might well apply to father
if it were possible to eliminate from it the unfortunate marring
undercurrent of braggadocio with which father’s attitude was never
for an instant tinged. With the indomitable courage that knew no
deterrent he continued to fight his battle on this side to make
America’s entry no empty action, as it threatened to be. He wrote me
that he had hoped that I would be with him in this greatest adventure
of all, but that since it was not to be, he could only be thankful
that his four boys were permitted to do their part in the actual
fighting.
When in a little town in Germany my brother and I got news of my
father’s death, there kept running through my head with monotonous
insistency Kipling’s lines:
“He scarce had need to doff his pride,
Or slough the dress of earth,
E’en as he trod that day to God
So walked he from his birth,
In simpleness and gentleness and honor and clean mirth.”
That was my father, to whose comradeship and guidance so many of us
look forward in the Happy Hunting-Grounds.
II
In Quest of Sable Antelope
II
IN QUEST OF SABLE ANTELOPE
It was a bright, sunny day toward the end of October, and I was
walking along the streets of the old Portuguese town of Mombasa on
the east coast of Equatorial Africa. Behind me, in ragged formation,
marched some twenty-five blacks, all but four of them with loads on
their heads; the four were my personal “boys,” two gun-bearers, a
cook, and a tent-boy. They were scattered among the crowd, hurrying
up those that tried to lag behind for a last farewell to the wives
and sweethearts who were following along on either side, clad in the
dark-blue or more gaudily colored sheets that served them for clothes.
At length our heterogeneous assembly reached the white sands of the
harbor, and amid much confusion we stowed away into a couple of long,
broad dugouts and were ferried out to a dhow that lay moored not far
from the shore. We set sail amid the shrill cries of the women and a
crowd of small children who, on our approach, had scurried out of the
water like so many black monitor lizards.
We steered out across the bay toward a headland some two miles
distant. There was just enough breeze to ruffle the water, but the
dhow sped along at a rate that belied appearances. Sprawling among
their loads the men lit cigarettes and chatted and joked, talking
of the prospects of the trip, or the recent gossip of Mombasa. The
sailors, not knowing that I understood Swahili, began to discuss me
in loud tones. An awkward silence fell upon the porters, who didn’t
quite know how to tell them. Mali, my tent-boy, who was sitting near
me, looked toward me and smiled. When the discussion became a little
too personal, I turned to him and made a few pertinent remarks about
the crew. The porters grinned delightedly, and rarely have I seen
more shamefaced men than those sailors.
In far too short a time for all of us the dhow grounded on the other
side and we jumped out and started to unload. A giant baobab-tree
stood near the beach; a cluster of huts beneath it were occupied by
some Swahilis who fished, and ran a small store, where my porters
laid in a final supply of delicacies--sugar and tobacco.
It is customary to have a native head man, but on this short trip
I had decided to do without one, for though the porters were new,
my personal boys were old friends. Accordingly, when all the loads
were ready and neatly arranged in line, I shouted “Bandika!” Great
muscular black arms caught the packs and swung them up into place on
the head, and off we started, along the old coast trail, worn deep
with the traffic of centuries, and leading on for several hundred
miles with native villages strung along its length. Behind me strode
my two gun boys, then came the porters, all in single file, their
present regular order a strong contrast with our disordered progress
through the streets of Mombasa. Mali and Kombo, the cook, brought
up the rear to look out for stragglers, and help unfortunates to
rearrange their loads more comfortably.
A little way from the shore we passed an old Arab well; some women
were drawing water from it, but at our approach they deserted their
earthen jars and hurried away with shrill ejaculations. Fresh from
the more arid interior, I imagined that the men would fill their
gourds, but they filed past without stopping, for this was a land of
many streams.
We continued on our way silently, now through stretches of sandy
land covered with stunted bushes, now through native shambas, or
cultivated fields, until we came upon a group of natives seated
under a gigantic wide-spreading tree. It was a roadside shop, and
the porters threw down their loads and shouldered their way to where
the shopkeeper was squatting behind his wares--nuts, tobacco, tea,
bits of brass wire, beads, and sweetmeats of a somewhat gruesome
appearance. He was a striking-looking old fellow with a short gray
beard. Pretty soon he came to where I was sitting with a measure of
nuts for the white man; so in return I took out my tobacco-pouch and
presented him with some of the white man’s tobacco.
After a few minutes’ rest we set out again and marched along for some
time until we came to a cocoanut-palm grove, where I decided to camp
for the night. The natives we were among were called the WaNyika--the
“children of the wilderness.”
Leaving the men to arrange camp under the supervision of the
gun-bearers, I strolled over to a nearby village where there
was a dance in full swing. The men were regaling themselves
with cocoanut-wine, an evil-tasting liquid, made from fermented
cocoanut-milk, they told me. The moon, almost at full, was rising
when I returned to camp, and after supper I sat and smoked and
watched “the night and the palms in the moonlight,” until the local
chief, or Sultani, as they called him, came up and presented me
with some ripe cocoanuts, and sitting down on the ground beside me
he puffed away at his long clay pipe, coughing and choking over
the strong tobacco I had given him, but apparently enjoying it all
immensely. When he left I remained alone, unable for some time to
make up my mind to go to bed, such was the spell of the tropic
moonlight and the distant half-heard songs of the dancing “children
of the wilderness.”
[Illustration: A relic of the Portuguese occupation; an old well
beside the trail]
Early next morning we were on our way, and that night were camped
a few hundred yards from the village of a grizzled old Sultani,
whose domains lay in the heart of the sable country, for it was in
search of these handsome antelopes that I had come. In southern
Africa the adult males of the species are almost black, with white
bellies, but here they were not so dark in color, resembling more
nearly the southern female sable, which is a dark reddish brown.
Both sexes carry long horns that sweep back in a graceful curve over
the shoulders, those of the male much heavier and longer, sometimes,
in the south, attaining five feet in length. The sable antelope is
a savage animal, and when provoked, will attack man or beast. The
rapier-like horns prove an effective weapon as many a dog has learned
to its cost.
My tent was pitched beneath one of the large shade-trees in which the
country abounds. This one was the village council-tree, and when I
arrived the old men were seated beneath it on little wooden stools.
These were each hacked out of a single log and were only five or six
inches high. The owner carried his stool with him wherever he went,
slinging it over his shoulder on a bit of rawhide or a chain.
There was trouble in the village, for after the first formal
greetings were over the old chief told me that one of his sons had
just died. There was about to be held a dance in his memory, and
he led me over to watch it. We arrived just as the ceremony was
starting. Only small boys were taking part in it, and it was anything
but a mournful affair, for each boy had strung round his ankles
baskets filled with pebbles that rattled in time with the rhythm of
the dance. In piping soprano they sang a lively air which, unlike any
native music I had hitherto heard, sounded distinctly European, and
would scarcely have been out of place in a comic opera.
[Illustration: The Death Dance of the Wa Nyika children in memory of
the chieftain’s little son]
When the dance was finished the Sultani came back with me to my
tent, and sitting down on his stool beside me, we gossiped until I
was ready to go to bed. I had given him a gorgeous green umbrella
and a most meritorious knife, promising him further presents should
success attend me in the chase. He, in addition to the customary
cocoanuts, had presented me with some chickens and a large supply of
a carrot-shaped root called mihogo; by no means a bad substitute for
potatoes, and eaten either raw or cooked; having in the former state
a slight chestnut flavor.
The first day’s hunting was a blank, for although we climbed hill
after hill and searched the country with my spy-glasses, we saw
nothing but some kongoni (hartebeeste), and I had no intention of
risking disturbing the country by shooting at them, much as the men
would have liked the meat. It was the rainy season, and we were
continually getting drenched by showers, but between times the sun
would appear and in an incredibly short time we would be dry again.
The Sultani had given me two guides, sturdy, cheerful fellows with
no idea of hunting, but knowing the country well, which was all we
wanted. We loaded them down with cocoanuts, for in the middle of the
day when one was feeling tired and hot it was most refreshing to cut
a hole in a cocoanut and drink the milk, eating the meat afterward.
The following day we made a very early start, leaving camp amid a
veritable tropical downpour. For half an hour we threaded our way
through the semi-cultivated native shambas; the rain soon stopped,
the sun rose, and we followed an overgrown trail through a jungle
of glistening leaves. Climbing a large hill, we sat down among some
rocks to reconnoitre. Just as I was lighting my pipe I saw Juma
Yohari, one of my gun-bearers, motioning excitedly. I crept over
to him and he pointed out, three-quarters of a mile away, a small
band of sable crossing a little open space between two thickets. The
country was difficult to hunt, for it was so furrowed with valleys,
down the most of which there ran streams, that there was very little
level land, and that little was in the main bush country--the Bara,
as the natives called it. There were, however, occasional open
stretches, but during the rainy season, as at present, the grass
was so high everywhere that it was difficult to find game. We held
a hurried consultation, Juma, Kasitura--my other gun-bearer--and
myself; after a short disagreement we decided upon the course, and
set out as fast as we safely could toward the point agreed on. It
was exhausting work: through ravines, up hills, all amid a tangle
of vines and thorns; and once among the valleys it was hard to know
just where we were. When we reached what we felt was the spot we had
aimed at, we could find no trace of our quarry, though we searched
stealthily in all directions. I led the way toward a cluster of tall
palms that were surrounded by dense undergrowth. A slight wind rose,
and as I entered the thicket with every nerve tense, I heard a loud
and most disconcerting crackle that caused me to jump back on to
Yohari, who was close behind me. He grinned and pointed to some great
dead palm-leaves pendant along the trunk of one of the trees that the
wind had set in motion. The next instant I caught sight of a pair of
horns moving through the brush. On making out the general outline of
the body, I fired. Another antelope that I had not seen made off, and
taking it for a female I again fired, bringing it down with a most
lucky shot. I had hoped to collect male, female, and young for the
museum, so I was overjoyed, believing that I had on the second day’s
hunting managed to get the two adults. Yohari and Kasitura thought
the same, but when we reached our quarry we found them to be both
males; the latter a young one, and the former, although full grown
in body, by no means the tawny black color of an old bull. We set
to work on the skins, and soon had them off. Juma took one of the
Shenzies[2] and went back to camp with the skins, while Kasitura and
I went on with the other. We returned to camp by moonlight that night
without having seen any more game. The porters had gone out and
brought in the meat and there was a grand feast in progress.
After some antelope-steak and a couple of cups of tea I tumbled
into bed and was soon sound asleep. The next thing I knew I was
wide awake, feeling as if there were fourscore pincers at work on
me. Bounding out of bed, I ran for the camp-fire, which was still
flickering. I was covered with ants. They had apparently attacked the
boys sleeping near me at about the same time, for the camp was in an
uproar and there was a hurrying of black figures, and a torrent of
angry Swahili imprecations. There was nothing for it but to beat an
ignominious retreat, and we fled in confusion. Once out of reach of
reinforcements we soon ridded ourselves of such of our adversaries as
were still on us. Fortunately for us the assault had taken place not
long before dawn, and we returned to camp safely by daylight.
That day we moved camp to the top of a neighboring hill, about a mile
from the village. I spent the morning working over the skins which
I had only roughly salted the night before; but in the afternoon we
sallied forth again to the hunt.
We went through several unsuccessful days before I again came up with
sable. Several times we had met with fresh tracks, and in each case
Kasitura, who was a strapping Basoga from a tribe far inland and an
excellent tracker, took up the trail and did admirable work. The
country was invariably so dense and the game so wary that in spite of
Kasitura’s remarkable tracking, only on two occasions did we sight
the quarry, and each time it was only a fleeting glimpse as they
crashed off. I could have had a shot, but I was anxious not to kill
anything more save a full-grown female or an old master bull; and it
was impossible to determine either sex or age.