``I see a man’s life is a tedious one. I have tired myself; and
``for two nights together have made the ground my bed
`````Cymbeline=
|You can imagine with what joy I looked forward to a good night’s rest
after the previous twelve hours’ vigil, and therefore it is the more
amusing to remember that, as Fate would have it, I had an even more
occupied time during the midnight hours than ever. We had started to
march, after returning to camp with the wart-hog, as we had news of
splendid “khubbah” some miles off, given to us by a Somali who came in
riding his unkempt pony. The Somali ponies, by the way, are never shod.
The ground was very bad going, and over one bit of sandy waste I thought
we never should get. The camels sank in up to their knees at every
forward move, then deeper, and at last so deep--it was almost like an
American mud-hole--I began to fear consequences. The absurd creatures
made no attempt to extricate themselves, but simply, when they found the
place a perfect quagmire, settled down like squashed jellies.
It was too ridiculous for words, and I laughed and laughed. Everybody
talked at once, and nobody did anything. At last we all, even the Somali
who brought us the news of the distant game, and who seemed to like us
very much, for we never got rid of him again lent a hand, and began to
unload the laden camels, carrying the goods to _terra-firma_. some sixty
yards away.
The moment the camels considered their loads lightened they condescended
to heave themselves up a little. After loading up again we proceeded
but a little way, indeed but a few hundred yards, when the whole thing
repeated itself. The camels were embedded once more. Cecily and I
decided to go on and leave them all to it, and try and get any sport
that might be had, ordering the men to release the camels from this new
quagmire of theirs, and to afterwards form zareba close to the place,
I was really glad to ride away from the whole thing, confusion and
everything. The disorganised, unsettled feeling I got reminded me of
that which comes to one at home during the annual upheaval known as the
spring-cleaning. The green grass was springing up with the recent rains,
and our little ponies made light of the muddy going. The spoor of all
sorts of game was everywhere apparent, and we were most interested to
see traces of ostrich, although we did not that day come across any,
indeed they are rather difficult creatures to see.
We separated, as was our wont, Cecily taking Clarence, and I the Baron,
whom we had now, in spite of his romancing propensities, promoted to
second in command. He had great acumen when he chose to display it, and
was no sort of a coward. But then, in spite of what some travellers say,
the average Somali rarely is. They are frightful “buck-sticks,” but I
never saw any cowardice to disprove their boasting stories.
After leaving the ponies with two syces we went off at right angles, and
after a long and heavy walk I came on a bunch of aoul, who winded me and
darted away like lightning. Their flight started a great prize, whom I
had not noticed before, so much the colour of the reddish-brown earth
was he. A dibatag buck. He fled too a little way, but then halted,
appearing to think the sudden fright of the aoul unnecessary. I was
crouching low behind a small bush, and took most careful aim. Off went
the long-necked creature again, its quite lengthy tail held erect. He
stood and faced me. He apparently mistrusted the bush, but had some
weakness for the spot. It was a very long shot, but I tried it. The
bullet found a billet, for I heard it tell, but the buck sprang feet
into the air and was off in a moment. I took to my heels and ran like
mad. I don’t know how I ever imagined I was to overtake the antelope.
The Baron tore along behind me. I ran until I was completely winded, but
I could see a strong blood-trail, so knew the antelope was hard hit. I
ran on again, and we were now in very boggy ground, or rather surrounded
by many oozy-looking water holes. It was a very shaky shot I got in next
time. The dibatag dashed on for a few paces, and then took a crashing
header into--of course--the largest pool in the vicinity. The Baron and
I danced about on the edge in great vexation, but I did not mean to lose
my splendid prize even if I had to go in after him myself. Satisfying
myself that the water was not deep, I bribed the avaricious Somali to go
in and help lift the animal whilst I rendered active assistance on dry
land, and this was done. The Baron went in with a very bad grace, at
which one cannot be surprised, and after prodigious splashing and any
amount of exertion, for the buck was an immense weight, I held the
dibatag out of the water whilst the Baron extricated himself, together
with many leeches, from the pool. Then we both heaved together, and the
buck was mine. The Baron now began to make such a fuss about his loss of
blood caused by the leeches who would not let go I told him to go home
to camp and put salt on them and then recover, and ordered him meanwhile
to send the syce back to me with my pony.
I sat down and admired my dibatag, and was mightily pleased with my
luck. For this antelope is very shy and difficult to stalk as a rule.
Dibatag is, of course, the native name, but somehow the one most
commonly used everywhere. The correct name is Clark’s Gazelle. The
tail is really quite lengthy, and the one sported by my prize
measured twelve-and-a-half inches. His horns were good and touched
nine-and-three-quarter inches. Only the bucks carry horns.
The dibatag was so large we had the greatest difficulty in packing him
on to the pony as I wanted to do, so we finally skinned him, keeping his
head and the feet, which I afterwards had mounted as bell-pulls.
Going back to camp I came on Cecily, who recounted her adventures--not
a quarter so interesting as mine, though, for she had drawn blank. It
would be boring for any one to have to wade through stories of stalks
that came to nothing.
“What’s hit is history, but what’s missed is mystery,” though, of
course, each several excursion teemed with myriad interests for us on
the spot.
[Illustration: 0125]
Sometimes I spoored for hours without getting a shot, involving a great
knowledge of the habits of animals, keen eyes and judgment, all of which
Clarence possessed in a high degree. Then his ability to speak English,
even imperfectly, was such an advantage, and we beguiled many an hour in
conversation.
I wonder if we human beings will ever be able to hunt for its own sake,
without the desire for its cruel consummation. Much though I love the
old primitive instinct of pursuing, I am not able to forgo the shot, and
particularly when I want a lovely pair of horns. I suppose we keep the
balance, and if we did not kill the lions and leopards would get the
upper hand. But often I wished when I was flushed with success, and I
saw my beast lying dead, that I had not done it. It seemed so cruel, and
all antelope are so very beautiful. Of course, we had to kill for food
as well as sport, and I think we spared generously on the whole, for we
could have trebled the bag.
I began to feel tired of the actual killing as soon as I had perfect
specimens of each sort, and always preferred the nobler sport of more
dangerous game. I think if I went again I could in most instances deny
myself the shot, and content myself with watching and photographing.
As it was, I often lay for an hour and watched game, after crawling to
within fifty yards. On one occasion an aoul and I eyed each other at
twenty paces, and so motionless was I he could neither make head nor
tail of me.
The camp was in a turmoil and every camel-man shouting at the top of
his voice--the one thing I do object to in Somalis. Their very whispers
almost break your ear-drum, and I suppose a loud voice is the result of
many centuries of calling over vast spaces.
Three of the camels, heavily laden, had turned aggressive, bitten
several men, and shaken the dust of the place off their feet. Of course,
the levanting camels proved to be the ones loaded up with our tents
and bedding. They had a very excellent start before anyone thought it
necessary to go in pursuit. It was all gross carelessness, as a loaded
camel is easy enough to stop if the stopping is done by its own driver.
There was nothing for us to do in the matter, and supper seemed the main
object just then. The cook served us up some soup and broiled chops, and
we topped up with some delicious jam out of the useful little pots
from the A. and N. Stores, holding enough for a not very greedy person.
Cecily voted for blackberry, and I sampled the raspberry.
Night fell, and still no returning camels. I rode out a little way, but
the going was too impossible in the dark. My pony was a gallant little
beast, a bit of a stargazer, but I prefer a horse with his heart in the
right place, wherever his looks may be.
I was by this time aching all over, and there was nothing to do but
make provision for as comfortable a night as might be. We collected what
spare blankets we could, and lay down near one of the fires. Though so
weary I could not sleep, and the camp was never silent for a moment.
The fires were kept high, and shots fired at intervals to guide the
wandering camel-men.
[Illustration: 0129]
The men lay about or sat about the watch-fires, and in the middle of
the night two of them began to fight. In the lurid light the scene was
sufficiently realistic to be unpleasant. They began with loud words,
progressed to blows, and then advanced to spears. Thinking that rifles
would probably be the next resource, I got up and called on the men to
desist. They took no more notice of me, naturally, than if I had never
spoken. And as the now thoroughly awakened camp appeared to be going to
take sides in the business, I got my “express” and shrieked out loudly
that I then and there meant to make an end of both the combatants.
Although they were not supposed to understand English, they translated
enough from my resolute manner and threatening gestures to know that
I would put up with no nonsense. They ceased the combat as suddenly as
they began it, but not before camel-man No. 1 had jabbed camel-man No. 2
in the fleshy part of his thigh.
I told Clarence to hold No. 1 in durance vile whilst No. 2 had to be
attended to with as much care as if we really sympathised with him. All
my desire was to be able to shoot both of them on sight. I was so tired
I could hardly see, and too aching to do more than drag myself around.
We had to dress the man’s wound for fear of consequences, and went on
messing away with him until the first signs of dawn saw the return of
the prodigals, travel-stained and weary. The camels promptly sank down
and began chewing the cud composedly. Really the camel is the most
philosophical of all living things!
Next morning I held a court-martial of sorts on the offenders, and
threatened them both with the loss of the promised bonus to be given at
the end of the trip provided all things pleased us. I also docked them
of some pay. This had the desired effect, and battles, except wordy
ones, were “off” henceforward.
The wound by rights ought to have been stitched, but we rather shied
off doing it. The dressing was pantomime enough; I nearly lost my
temper many times. An expedition like ours is a grand field on which
to practise repression, and I was for ever trying conclusions with my
capabilities in that direction.
Out early near here one morning we came on an astonishing sight--an oryx
lying down in a thorn patch, and all around him, like familiars of a
witch, crouched jackals, the length of one of their kind apart, watching
with never flinching stare the centre of attraction. We cantered up, and
the jackals reluctantly made off. One big fellow struck me as unlike his
brethren, and a bit of a prize. So, reining in the pony, I jumped to
the ground, losing a lot of time in the process, and fired with rather
a shaky hand. The result was I hit the loping animal in the leg only,
laming it, causing it to howl terribly, and causing me much shame for my
unskilled aim.
I pursued my quarry, because I could not leave it out wounded,
and overtook it just as it fled into a lair of thick adad bushes.
Dismounting, I let the pony stand, and going to the bushes I stooped
down to peer in, laying my rifle on the sand. A flare of green eyes and
snarling teeth, a flat yellow head shot out as a snake strikes. My coat
sleeve was gripped in a gin of white fangs, but only the incisors cut
into my flesh--caught by the left arm in a flash. Before worse could
happen I pulled my shikar pistol from my belt, and in the tussle--for
we neither of us took things lying down--the weapon went off anyhow.
My enemy sank inert, still gripping my sleeve. He was hit mortally, and
died in a moment or two. My arm began to smart a trifle, and I had some
difficulty in dragging the wolf-creature from its deep-in lair. It was a
wolf, not large--no bigger than a jackal, and much smaller than a hyæna.
Its coat was marked with brown, and right down the middle of the back
was a fine upstanding length of hair that formed a black-tipped mane
or ridge. The tail was long and thick, very black on the lower part and
very yellow at the upper. The fore feet were five-toed; I counted them
carefully.
It was a bit of a struggle to lift the carcase across the pony, and I
had to walk, holding it on, to the place where I left Cecily. She was
watching over the departed oryx, and vultures sat around her wistfully
regarding the feast that might have been. In the side of the dead
antelope an arrow still stabbed, and marks of a whole flight were in
evidence all over the glossy coat. Some Midgans hunting without dogs
had missed their quarry somehow. Cecily had put the big bull out of his
pain, and there we were with an _embarras de richesse_ miles from camp
and alone. The oryx had very finely turned horns, and it seemed a sin to
waste them. We set off to decapitate him with the only implement we had,
a very small shikar knife. It took a long time in the doing, and we were
so hot and tired and sick by the end of the performance, I thought we
must be struck with the sun. The water in our bottles was quite hot.
The instant we left the carcase of the oryx the vultures came from all
sides, hanging over it with legs poised to alight, screaming as they
flapped along the ground and settled on the bushes around. We took it
in turns to ride the spare pony; the other was a beast of burden for our
spoils. A flock of quail ran ahead and disappeared beneath the khansa.
The walking one walked, and the riding one rode, and at last we had to
take our coats off. The heat grew insufferable, the sun blazed a-shimmer
through the purple-blue coverlet of the sky. Even the sun loving
sun-birds kept in the shade of the bushes. My rifle--best of
playthings--took on a pound or two in weight.
Cecily wears perpetually a single-stone diamond ring, given her by a
friend now in Purgatory, if everyone gets their deserts, as we are told
is the invariable rule. The sun danced on the exquisite stone, and as
she moved her hand a glinting light flickered from it on the sand here
and there, like a will-o’-the wisp.
Our pony shied--actually pretending to possess nerves--at a porcupine,
who suddenly rustled his quills like the upsetting of a box of pens. The
oryx head fell off, and the mettlesome steed backed on to it, damaging
the horn near the tip against a sharp stone. A small kink, but a pity.
Cecily made the pony walk up to our friend of the quills, but as it
seemed likely to result in the wolf being chucked off also, we abandoned
horse-training notions for the present.
Getting back to camp, we found the men lining up for their devotions, so
waited patiently until they were over. Everybody’s creed, or form of
it, should be respected, because each separate religion, multitudinous
though they are, is but one religion, and a part of the vast whole. The
seeming difference in all sects are merely the individual temperamental
superstitions. It does not matter, therefore, if we worship Allah or
Joss, Buddha or Mrs. Eddy. “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
by any other name would smell as sweet.” To certain people certain names
for religion are necessary--to others the “Religion Universal” serves.
Now, our chef belonged to--I am sure--the Peculiar People, and didn’t
know it, and called himself a Mussulman of the Shafai sect. He must have
been peculiar to think he deceived us into believing he was a cook, ever
had been, or ever would be. Some people are born cooks, some achieve
cooking, and some have cooking thrust upon them. Our satellite was of
the latter kind.
We bought a couple of sheep that night from a passing caravan, but told
the men they would be the last we should provide if the animals could
not be despatched in a quicker, more humane manner. The “hallal” slash
across the throat seems only to be really efficacious if the animal
to be killed is in full possession of its senses. They might easily
be stunned first. When we killed antelope for meat the shikari always
satisfied himself first that the animal was alive before he bothered to
give the “hallal.” This seems rather an Irishism, but you understand how
I mean.
Somali sheep are never shorn, for their wool attains no length. This is
another of dear Nature’s wise arrangements. I do not like to imagine the
condition of any poor sheep in the Somali sun with a coat on like unto
the ones grown by our animals at home. The number of sheep in Somaliland
is as the sands of the sea. Such vast flocks would be large even in an
avowedly sheep-producing country where the rearing of them is reduced
to a fine art. The Somali animals thrive and multiply with hardly any
attention. They never grow horns, and have the most extraordinary tails,
huge lumps of fat, which wax all very fine and large if the pasturage is
good, and dwindle at once if the herbage is scanty. Carefully fostered,
the sheep raising industry could support the country. The export at
present is as nothing to what it might be engineered into.