````My hour is almost come
`````Hamlet=
``A lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing, for there is not
``a more fearful wild fowl than your lion living
`````Midsummer Night’s Dream=
|Very shortly after this we came to a Somali _karia_, or encampment. Its
inhabitants were a nomadic crowd, and very friendly, rather too much so,
and I had to order Clarence to set a guard over all our things.
Their own tents were poor, made of camel mats that had seen better days.
The Somali women were immensely taken with our fair hair, and still more
with our hair-pins. Contrary to the accepted custom of lady travellers,
we did not suffer the discomfort of wearing our hair in a plait down our
backs. We “did” our hair--mysterious rite--as usual. By the time I had
finished my call at the camp my golden hair was hanging down my back. I
had given every single hair-pin to the Somali ladies, who received them
with as much delight as we should a diamond tiara.
Married women in Somaliland wear their hair encased in a bag
arrangement. Girls plait theirs. The little ones’ heads are shaven, and
so, apparently, were the scalps of the very old men. Clarence’s hair was
about two inches long when we started, and he had a way of cleaning it
reminiscent of a bird taking a sand bath. He rubbed his head with wet
ashes, which speedily dried in the sun, and allowed him to shake the
dust out--a _nettoyage à sec_ process, and very effective. As a rule he
wore no head-covering in the hottest sun.
Even the heads of the Somali babies are exposed in all their baldness. I
suppose God tempers the rays to the shorn lambs.
The huts are made of a frame of bent poles, over which camel mats and
odds and ends in the way of blankets are thrown. The nomadic tribes in
their treks follow the grass, and occupy the same zarebas year after
year. These they make of thick thorn brushwood, immensely high, two
circles, one inside the other. Between the two fences the cattle are
penned sometimes, but at night the middle encampment receives most
of them, and fires are lighted. All the work of erecting the huts and
tending the animals is done by women, and very often the oldest women
and the smallest of the children have this office thrust upon them.
You can imagine that a Somali _baria_ is rather of the nature of
Barnum’s, minus the auctioneering and the shouting and bustle--countless
people, ground all ploughed with the _sturm und drang_ of the restless
feet, and smell---!
It is a wonderful thing that human beings can thrive in the condition
of dirt and squalor in which these wandering Somalis live. They do, and
some of them are very fine-looking men indeed.
The majority of the tribes are nomadic. There are some settled, some
traders pure and simple, and some outcaste people, of whom the Midgans
seem the most romantic--probably because he still uses bow and arrow,
lives a hand to mouth existence, calls no _karia_ home, and makes his
bed in the open.
Most Somalis wear the long tobe in various degrees of cleanliness. The
real dandy affects a garment of dazzling whiteness. Less particular
people carry on until the tobe is filthy. I imagine the cloth hails from
Manchester. It is cotton sheeting, several feet in length, and put on
according to the taste and fancy, artistic, original, or otherwise, of
the wearer. It is a graceful costume, Cæsar-like and imposing. At night
it is not removed, and seen by the light of the fire each sleeping
Somali looks like nothing so much as some great cocoon.
A praying carpet is considered an indispensable part of the Somali
equipment. It isn’t really a carpet at all, being nothing in the wide
world but a piece of tanned hide or skin. Some of our men spent a good
deal of time on the mat, prostrating themselves at the most untoward
moments. Others again did not seem to have got religion, and never
called the thing into use at all. But to every one of them Allah was a
something impossible to get along without entirely. If there had been no
Allah or Kismet to put all the blame on to when everything went wrong,
we should have been in an awkward place indeed.
It was at this encampment I purchased two more ponies, not beautiful to
look at but beggars to go.
We tried them first, fearing to be done again, and they seemed willing
little fellows, and full of life. Most of the tribes breed ponies on a
small or large scale, and as they are never groomed or tidied up at all
they cannot help a somewhat unkempt appearance. We bought a few sheep
for food, and were presented with a dirty harn full of camels’ milk,
horrid tasting stuff, which we handed over to the men, and so didn’t
desert our “Nestlé” for it. Going among the squalid tents in the _karia_
we found a woman in a sad state of collapse, although nobody seemed to
mind it save ourselves. More of the Kismet business. She had a wee baby,
a few hours old, lying on the _herio_ beside her. The whole scene was
primitive and pathetic to a degree. I am glad to say we improved matters
considerably.
Although water was very scarce, we spared enough from our store to tub
the quaint little baby, going first back to our tents to procure soap
and a few other things. We dressed the mite in a white vest, in which
it was completely lost, to the interest and astonishment of a jury of
matrons who stood around us, ever and again feeling some part of our
clothing, tying and untying our boot laces, and even going the length
of putting inquisitive hands into our pockets. For the mother of His
Majesty the Baby we opened our first bottle of emergency champagne. A
right thinking Somali is dead against strong drink of any kind, spirits
being entirely taboo, so we thought it safer and more diplomatic to
refer to the champagne as medicine. The bang it opened with astonished
the listless crowds, and the effect as the good wine did its work
astonished them still more.
We presented the headman with a tobe, and then took ourselves back to
camp, accompanied by a rabble of Somalis who infested our zareba until
we struck tents that evening. I had as much of a bath as it was possible
to get in a tea-cupful of water. But a visit to a Somali encampment
makes you feel a trifle dirty.
Our water supply was on the verge of becoming a worry, so we had to make
a detour towards a place where rain was reported to have fallen and the
pools could be counted on. Clarence knew all this part of the country
well, and was a most reliable guide as well as everything else.
His duties were multitudinous, and it was marvellous how deftly he
discharged them. He always saw to the lading and unloading, chose the
spot for camp, placed the watch o’ nights, gave out the stores, and kept
his temper through it all. He was a born leader of men, amiable, quick
and never sulked; an admirable thing. Sulkiness is rather a big trait in
the Somali character; it usually springs from wounded vanity.
At the water holes we fell in with some more Somalis, who gave the Baron
Munchausen news of lions in the vicinity. By the time our henchman had
elaborated the story the lions were practically in our zareba, and we
were much discouraged, feeling that, in all human probability, judging
by previous results, we were as far off lions as ever.
That night, after a somewhat longer, more tiring trek than usual, for
the first time in my life I heard a lion roar. I say for the first time,
because in my superiority I tell you that the grunting, short, peevish
crying heard in the great cat house at the Zoo at feeding-time cannot be
called roaring, after one has heard the wonderful sound of His Majesty
hunting. My heart seemed to stand still with awe as I listened to that
never-to-be-forgotten sound. Terrific and majestic, it reverberated
through the silence of the night, and seemed to repeat itself in echoes
when all was really still.
The dawn is the time when lions roar most. They occasionally give tongue
when actually hunting, often after feeding. The sound varies with the
age and lung power of the animal, and has many gradations, sometimes
sounding as though the pain of doing it at all hurt the throat,
sometimes the sound comes in great abrupt coughs, and again one hears
even triumphant roars.
We rose early. Indeed, I do not think we slept again after hearing the
longed-for serenade, and arranging for all the hunters to accompany us,
set off on our new steeds to spoor for lion. After about six miles of
roughish going we struck the tracks. We examined them with the greatest
interest, and Clarence demonstrated to us the evidence that the spoor
was very new indeed, that the lions were two in number and going at
a walking pace. I soon learnt when a lion was walking and when he
commenced to run. The lion, being a cat, has retractile claws, and
therefore when he walks the pugs are even and rounded. The instant he
alters the pace and runs, the nail-marks are plain, and the sand is
usually slightly furred up by the pad.
High above us, sailing round and round majestically, were many vultures.
Sometimes one would swoop low, to rise again. It was plain from
the screaming of the birds a kill was at hand. We pushed on, an
indescribable excitement gripping me. I regarded every bush furtively.
What secrets might it not hold? Abreast of it, passed it. Nothing!
I had a taut feeling of strained relief; I glanced at Cecily, but you
could not guess her feeling from her face. I felt I should like to walk,
to feel _terra firma_ beneath my feet, and grasp my rifle instead of
reins; but Clarence had said nothing, and plodded along by my side. He
was walking, but four hunters were mounted.
In a slightly open space--the whole of the sandy waste was dotted here
with bushes taller than a man--we came on what had once been a graceful
aoul, mangled and torn. The lions had dined, and that heavily, only the
shoulders of the gazelle being left. The sand was tossed up and ploughed
into furrows in the death struggle, and from the scene of the last
phase wound a lion track going towards a thick bunch of thorn. It seemed
likely the lions were lying up in the immediate vicinity. The lion
feeds in a very businesslike manner, and after a kill gorges himself to
repletion, then, not to put too fine a point on it, goes a little way
off, is violently and disgustingly sick, after which he returns and
gorges some more. Then he sleeps, off and on, for perhaps three days,
when he hunts again. When hunting, immense distances are covered, and
though he hunts alone, his mate comes up with him eventually to share
the spoil. They seem to have some way of communicating their whereabouts
that is quite as effective as our telegraphic system.
I felt it was quite time to quit my saddle, and be clear of the pony, so
dismounted and prepared for action, taking my rifle and looking to it.
It was only just in time for my peace of mind. In one tense second I
realised I had seen two monstrous moving beasts, yellowish and majestic.
They were very close, and moved at a slow pace from the bush ahead into
a patch of still thicker cover to the left. I remember that though the
great moment for which we had planned and longed and striven was really
at hand, all my excitement left me, and there was nothing but a cold
tingling sensation running about my veins. Clarence in a moment showed
the excellent stage-management for which he was famous, and I heard
as in a dream the word of command that sent our hunters, the Baron
included, dashing after our quarry shouting and yelling and waving
spears. Again I caught a glimpse of the now hurrying beasts. How mighty
they looked! In form as unlike a prisoned lion as can well be imagined.
They hardly seemed related to their cousins at the Zoo. The mane of the
wild lion is very much shorter. No wild lion acquires that wealth of
hair we admire so much. The strenuous life acts as hair-cutter. And yet
the wild beast is much the most beautiful in his virile strength and
suggestion of enormous power.
The lions being located, we crept on warily towards the bush, a citadel
of khansa and mimosa scrub, a typical bit of jungle cover. The lions
sought it so readily, as they had dined so heavily that they were
feeling overdone. The men went around the lair and shouted and beat at
the back. Whether the cats were driven forward or not with the din,
or whether they had not penetrated far within the retreat at first,
I cannot, of course, tell, but I saw from thirty-five yards off, as I
stood with my finger on the trigger, ferocious gleaming eyes, and heard
ugly short snarls, breaking into throaty suppressed roars every two
or three seconds. The jungle cover parted, and with lithe stretched
shoulders a lioness shook herself half free of the density, then
crouched low again. Down, down, until only the flat of her skull showed,
and her small twitching ears. In one more moment she would be on us. I
heard Cecily say something. I think it may have been “Fire!” Sighting
for as low as I could see on that half arc of yellow I pulled the
trigger, and Cecily’s rifle cracked simultaneously. The head of the
lioness pressed lower, and nothing showed above the ridge of grass and
thorn. The lioness must be dead. And yet, could one kill so great a
foe so simply? We stood transfixed. The sun blared down, a butterfly
flickered across the sand, a cricket chirruped in long-drawn, twisting
notes. These trifles stamped themselves on my memory as belonging for
ever to the scene, and now I cannot see a butterfly or hear a cricket’s
roundelay without going back to that day of days and wonder unsurpassed.
Then I did an inanely stupid thing. It was my first lion shoot, and my
ignorance and enthusiasm carried me away. I ran forward to investigate,
with my rifle at the trail. I don’t excuse such folly, and I got my
deserts. Worse remains behind. It was my rule to reload the right barrel
immediately after firing, and the left I called my emergency supply.
My rule I say, and yet in this most important shoot of all it was so
in theory only! I had forgotten everything but the dead lioness. I had
forgotten the bush contained another enemy.
A snarling quick roar, and almost before I could do anything but bring
up my rifle and fire without the sights, a lion broke from the side
of the brake. I heard an exclamation behind me, and my cousin’s rifle
spoke. The bullet grazed the lion’s shoulder only, and lashed him to
fury. All I can recollect is seeing the animal’s muscles contract as
he gathered himself for a springing charge, and instinct told me the
precise minute he would take off. My nerves seemed to relax, and I tried
to hurl myself to one side. There was no power of hurling left in me,
and I simply fell, not backwards nor forwards, but sideways, and that
accident or piece of luck saved me. For the great cat had calculated his
distance, and had to spring straight forward. He had not bargained for a
victim slightly to the right or left. His weight fell on my legs merely,
and his claws struck in. Before he had time to turn and rend me, almost
instantaneously my cousin fired. I did not know until later that she did
so from a distance of some six yards only, having run right up to the
scene in her resolve to succour me. The top of the lion’s head was blown
to smithereens, and the heavy body sank. I felt a greater weight;
the blood poured from his mouth on to the sand, the jaws yet working
convulsively. The whole world seemed to me to be bounded north, south,
east, and west by Lion. The carcase rolled a little and then was still.
Pinned by the massive haunches I lay in the sand.
Clarence, Cecily, and all the hunters stood around. I noticed how pale
she was. Even the tan of her sunburnt face could not conceal the ravages
of the last five minutes. The men pulled the heavy carcase away, taking
him by the fore-paws, his tail trailing, and exquisite head all so
hideously damaged. Only his skin would be available now, still----
I sat up in a minute, feeling indescribably shaky, and measured the lion
with my eye. He could be gloriously mounted, and “He will just do for
that space in the billiard room,” my voice tailed off. I don’t remember
anything else until I found myself in my tent with my cousin rendering
first aid, washing the wounds and dressing them with iodoform. Only one
gash was of any moment. It was in the fleshy part of the thigh. We had
not sufficient medical skill to play any pranks, so kept to such simple
rules as extreme cleanliness, antiseptic treatment, and nourishing food.
Indeed, our cook did well for me those days, and made me at intervals
the most excellent mutton broth, which he insisted on bringing to me
himself, in spite of the obvious annoyance of the butler, who had lived
in the service of an English family and so knew what was what.
The days and nights were very long just then.
Clarence came to see me often. His occupation was gone. Cecily did
not leave me at all at first. I believe our good fellow wondered if
we should ever require him to hunt again. He did not know the proverb,
“Once bitten, twice shy,” but you could see he felt it.
One evening, when I was convalescent, Clarence brought one of the men to
us with inquiries as to the best way to cure him.
“What is the matter?” was naturally the first question, as we were not
the human Homoceas our men seemed to take us for.
Our servant had been chewing--must have been--a piece of thorn, and a
particularly spiky insidious bit had stuck itself well in the back of
his throat, near the left tonsil. It would seem an easy enough thing to
pull out, but it was the most difficult of operations. We could not make
any very prolonged attempt at dislodgment because every time we tried to
touch the bit of thorn the man either shut his mouth with a snap and bit
us, or pretended he must be sick forthwith. It was very laughable, but a
little worrying. We tried nippers, a vast pair, that filled the mouth
to overflowing and hid the offending thorn from sight, We tried blunt
scissors, which Cecily said would not cut because they could not, and
might be relied on to act the part of nippers. Of course they did
cut, when they weren’t needed to, the roof of the patient’s mouth, and
matters grew worse than ever. The light was wholly insufficient, and
we could hardly see at all. The candle lamp never shone in the right
direction, and we laughed so--the two Somalis were in such deadly
earnest. I do not think any harm would have resulted if the thorn had
been left where it stuck until the morning. But no! The men said if the
thorn were left the throat would swell, and if the throat swelled
the patient would choke, and if he choked he would be dead. The cook
produced some of the doughy bread he was past-master in concocting, a
sticky mass to act as panacea, and our thorn-stuck henchman swallowed
a lot to the detriment of his digestion. No use. The thorn would not be
levered out. Then--brilliant idea--try a hairpin! Comic papers have
it that a woman can go through the world with a hairpin as a tool for
everything, and come out victorious. I have never seen one put in the
list of a hunter’s requirements--a great oversight. Take my word for it,
a hair-pin does the work of ten ordinary implements. The rounded end
of one hooked round the offending thorn ejected the cause of all the
trouble, and peace reigned in the camp.
[Illustration: 0089]