```They are as sick that surfeit with too much,
```As they that starve with nothing
`````Merchant of Venice=
|And now for a few days we struck a period of bad luck. Our larder
was empty save for tins of food kept for dire emergencies, and the men
affected to be weak from scant rations. In any other caravan they would
never, or hardly ever, have had them supplemented by flesh food; but
we had thoroughly spoiled them. Game grew scarce, even the ubiquitous
dik-dik was absent, and any shot we got on these flying excursions of
ours away from the base camp we bungled. The more we failed the more
disconcerted we became. How true it is nothing succeeds like success! At
last matters got so bad we both of us always politely offered the other
the chance of a miss. I would first decline to take it, and then Cecily.
Meanwhile the buck made good its escape. We both got backward in coming
forward, and, in American parlance, were thoroughly rattled.
At last I volunteered to go out early one morning with Clarence, and we
put up a bunch of aoul some five hundred yards away. They winded us, and
went off at their best pace. In desperation I spurred on the pony, and
called to Clarence to try and round up the flying creatures from behind
a clump of mimosa and shoot one himself if he could. Of course they
passed the place sailing ere ever he reached it. As we galloped along
our rush disturbed another band of aoul at close quarters, and in sheer
desperation I checked my pony so suddenly that he sat down. I flung
myself into a semblance of a position, and fired at the vanishing
quarters of a fine-looking buck. He staggered and kicked out, but caught
up again with his fellows, and they all disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Mounting again, we dashed after them, and after a hard gallop came on
the wounded animal going slower and far separated from the others. I
dared not try a shot from the saddle, as the going was so bad; and if
there is one thing I object to it is a cocked rifle at a gallop over
ant-bear holes.
The aoul put on a spurt and my pony began to show signs of stress, and
blundering terribly let me down suddenly over a large-sized hole. Much
shaken, I gathered up my scattered wits and called to Clarence to ride
the buck down. It was certainly wounded, and, I judged, badly so. To
return to the famishing, reproachful camp without meat was unthinkable,
as we had done it so often lately. I sat where I was tossed and
meditated until I felt a burning sensation on my finger, sharp and
stinging, and found it to be a scorpion of sorts. He paid toll for such
a liberty, and the butt of my rifle finished him. I immediately sucked
the stung finger perseveringly. What an odd thing it is--or seems odd to
me, being unlearned--that no mischief ever comes from the poison being
sucked into the system _via_ the mouth. Not even the virulent poison of
the rattler harms this way. When I got into camp I soaked my finger in
ammonia, and so got off excellently well.
I bestrode my weary steed again, asking no more of it than a slow walk,
and followed on the traces of Clarence and the aoul. I shouted after a
while, and he replied. I came on him shortly, sitting by the dead aoul,
resting between moments of butchery. I hadn’t heard a shot, but I must
have been too dazed. We were a long way from camp, and the difficulty
confronted us of packing so large a buck back. We could only do it
conveniently, as I did not want to walk, minus the head and feet. The
horns were good, but the head as a trophy was ruined by the way its
neck was cut. The system of “hallal” doesn’t seem to allow of ordinary
throat-cutting, far down, where the gash does not show. The gash must
run from ear to ear, consequently it ruins a trophy for setting up
purposes. Laden, we hied us back to what Nathaniel Gubbins would call
“the home-sweet,” and were welcomed with glowing fires, on which the
aoul, in parts, was immediately frizzling. The men gorged incontinently,
as Cecily came in shortly after us with an oryx. These two beasts broke
the run of bad luck, and afterwards, for a few days, we could not miss a
shot. Our bullets seemed charmed. So did the men. They ate semiraw meat
in such large quantities I wondered they didn’t get mange and lose
their hair. There is no satisfying a Somali with meat. He cannot have
sufficient. If a man would give all the substance of a buck to him it
would utterly be condemned.
After what seemed like a very long period of doing very little, we
judged our follower was well enough to be moved, and very glad we were
to strike camp, as the men were none the better for so much idleness.
It takes about an hour to strike camp, load up, and set out. The camels
kneel for the process of lading, with an anchor in the shape of the
head rope tied behind the knees. Unloading is a much more expeditious
business. Everything comes off in a quarter the time taken up in putting
it on. Our rifles travelled in cases made to take two at full length.
They were not very cumbersome, and we felt that the terrific amount of
banging about they would receive during loading and unloading made it a
necessity to give them entire protection.
This, I feel sure, is the very moment your hardened, seasoned shikari
would seize to make a few pertinent remarks on the merits of various
sporting rifles. Anything I could say on the subject, either of rifles,
or the shooting on our expedition, I am diffident of setting down. The
time is not yet when masculinity will accept from a mere woman hints or
views on a question so essentially man’s own. In the days of my youth
I troubled myself to read all sorts of books on shooting: Hints to
beginners on how to shoot, hints to beginners on how not to shoot; how
to open your eyes; how to hold your rifle that you feel no recoil, how
the rifle must be fitted to your shoulder or you cannot do any good at
all with it; and (gem of all) how to be a good sportsman--as though one
could learn that from books!
All these tomes of wisdom were written for man by man. I tried to follow
out their often entirely opposite advice, but after a while, being a
woman and therefore contrary, I “chucked” all systems and manufactured
rules for myself. I don’t close either eye when I shoot. I shoot with
both open. In Cecily’s case her left is the most reliable, and she
makes provision accordingly. Our present rifles were not fitted to our
shoulders. So far as I know, they would have done nicely for any one’s
shoulder. Either we were making the best of things, putting up with
inconveniences unknown to us, or else there is a frightful lot of
rubbish written around a sportsman’s battery. In spite of any “advice”
and “remarks” to the contrary, I consider my 12-bore, with soft lead
spherical bullets, driven by drams of powder, ideal for lion and all
more important, because dangerous, game. When one did get a bullet in it
stayed in, and there was no wasting of its dreadness on the desert air.
In reply to remarks as to the undoubted superiority of this, that, and
the other rifle, &c., &c., &c., I merely answer oracularly: “May be.”
“This, General,” an American hostess once remarked to General Sheridan,
who was busily manipulating an ordinary fork at the commencement of a
banquet, “_this_ is the oyster fork.”
“D----n it, madam,” answered the General, “I know it!”
In rifles, as in forks, and in many other things, _Chacun à son goût_.
Not even marksmanship can make a good sportsman, if there is any temper
or jealousy or smallness about one. A good sportsman is as happy on the
chance as on the certainty, and is not to be numbered as of the elect
because he has slaughtered so many head. It is not the quantity but the
quality that counts. Any one, short of an absolute lunatic, can hit a
large mark, say a buck, but not all men can hit it in a vital place.
Wounded animals, left in the jungle, are one of the most awful evidences
of unskilled shots, bad judgment, flurry, and an hundred other proofs
of things not learned or discovered for oneself. Of course, often it is
that the chances are entirely against one, and the quarry escapes; but
the careful, thoughtful, business-like shikari does not take on foolish
impossibilities. He knows that word without the “im,” and the result is
unerring success. Cecily and I never went in for anything but legitimate
rivalry, and unlike the majority of women who go in for games of chance
together never had the slightest desire to pull each other’s hair out,
or indulge in sarcastic badinage disguised as humour.
Wandering about the Mijertain we came on one or two wealthy tribes.
Their wealth consists of camels, and so many in a batch I had never
before seen. When grazing in their hundreds like this each mob of camels
is led by one of the most domineering character, who wears a bell, just
as the leader of cattle does in Canada. The camel-bell is made of wood,
carved by the natives, and, ringing in dull, toneless fashion, localises
the band.
We now began to be afraid of our reception. We were out of the beaten
track, and Clarence was getting a bit out of his depth. Nothing untoward
happened We did not allow any stranger into our zareba, and met every
caller outside. We felt that if we played the Englishman’s home is his
castle idea for all it was worth we should be on the safe side. The
Somali children seem to begin to work and carry heavy weights when ours
at home are just about beginning to think it is time to sit up, and I
never saw such out-sized heads! They were all head and “Little Mary.”
With age equipoise asserts itself and the whole structure seems to
revert to humdrumidity. For three years at least every Somali could
qualify for Barnum’s as a freak. After that he begins to look like
every other of his countrymen. But not all are alike. For instance, the
head-man of this particular tribe was the most atrabilarious creature
possible to meet. I don’t think he could smile. We thought he must
be crossed in love, but Clarence said the Lothario had already worked
through a little matter of four wives, so I suppose his excursions into
the realms of Cupid had been fortunate rather than the reverse.
A Somali is entitled to four wives at once, and the number of his
children, as a rule, would rejoice the heart of President Roosevelt. The
more children the better for him, because they make for the strength
of the tribe. Even girls are not altogether despised assets, because in
their youth they are valuable to tend the camels and goats, and some day
can be bartered for sheep or ponies. Some Somali women go to their lords
with dowries, and, as with us at home, are the more important for their
wealth. Consideration is shown them that is lacking towards their poorer
sisters who toil and moil at heavy work the whole day long, and when on
trek load all the camels, and do all the heavy camp work.
We tried our best to propitiate this Mijertain savage--he really was an
ordinary savage--but he only glowered and received all overtures in the
worst possible taste and rudeness. One could have told he was rich even
if we hadn’t seen his banking account feeding in their thousands.
This tribe looked on the sporting spirit with distrust, evidently
suspecting ulterior motives. It would be hard to convey to an utterly
savage mind that we took on all this _storm und drang_ of a big
expedition merely because we loved it. Trophies here descended to being
meat, and meat of all else topped the scale. Still, one could only eat
a certain amount before being very ill, so why such energy to procure
an unlimited quantity? I don’t think our sex was ever discovered here at
all. Englishwomen were not exactly thick on the ground, and I think
it possible the melancholy Mijertain had never previously seen one.
Probably his intelligence, of a very low order indeed, did not take him
farther than thinking what particularly undersized, emasculated English
sahibs these two were.
After a consultation we decided it would be really nice to do a long
forced march and put some miles between our two encampments. Somehow,
we couldn’t fraternise. And that beautiful sentence, without which no
suburban friendship is ever cemented--“Now you’ve found your way here,
you must be sure to come again”--was quite useless to be spoken.
In Suburbia that formula is a solemn rite, never disregarded in the
formation of a friendship. You might as well forget to ask “Is your tea
agreeable?” at an “At-Home” day. But in Somaliland you had friendship
offered so differently, if indeed it was offered at all. It came in the
guise of a dirty _harn_ of camel’s milk, microbial and miasmatic, or in
the person of a warlike goat, who with no _mauvaise-honte_ is willing
to take the whole caravan to his horns, or in cases of overwhelming
friendliness a sheep may be presented, with no thought of return. We
were rarely privileged to reach this giddy height--too stand-offish, I
conclude.
We did a stalk about this time that amused us very much. We went out
alone on our ponies, and came on a couple of oryx in a plot of country
interspersed with light cover of mimosa and thorn bushes, who winded us
and were off immediately. They did not run very far, but inquisitively
turned to stare back, standing close together. They were considerably
out of range. We separated, and Cecily rode off, so that finally we
two and the oryx formed the points of a triangle. A nomadic Somali came
riding up, the wind blowing away from him screened his approach, but
presently the oryx caught sight of this new apparition and back my way
they raced. As they came level with my pony I blazed at the nearest
buck, but as I am no good at all at shooting from the saddle I missed
gloriously, and the confused and startled animal fled helter skelter,
and dashed headlong into Cecily, who, not ready for the unexpected
joust, went flying with the impact. Fortunately oryx carry their heads
high when at the gallop, so she wasn’t really hurt, only winded. It does
take one’s breath a bit to be cannonaded into by a flying buck of the
size of an oryx. I think this one was the last we saw for some time, as
this variety is very scarce in the Mijertain and Haweea country.
[Illustration: 0235]
The Somali looked very much astonished, and after remarking a few not
understood sentences, took to a course of signalling of which we hadn’t
the code. We agreed between ourselves that the man meant his _karia_
was “over there,” so we windmilled back with our arms to demonstrate we
lived “over here,” which thoroughly mystified and fogged him. He made
things a trifle clearer by pointing to his mouth, and pretending to
eat, which could not mean anything but “an invitation to lunch would be
acceptable.” We nodded benignly and signed to him to follow us, and rode
back to camp. He gorged on oryx, like all the rest, and seemed to be
about to put himself on the strength of the caravan, dawdling round
until later on in the evening. We seemed to act on these wandering
spirits like a flypaper does on flies, but not wanting any more stickers
I bade Clarence ask our friend if they wouldn’t be missing him at home.
And the last I saw of our visitor was his outlined figure, in tattered
tobe, riding away, gnawing a lump of meat, a “speed the parting guest”
present.
This particular part of the world was overdone with snakes, of a deadly
variety, black and horrible looking. I went warily now, I can tell you,
and there was no more tracking for a few days in anything but my stout
boots.
We next filled up every available thing that held water, and launched
ourselves fairly on to the Marehan Desert. Never was the word more apt.
The place was deserted by man and beast. There was no life nor thing
stirring. We marched the first day from dawn to about 10 a.m., when the
fierce sun forced us to take shelter in hastily erected tents. Even the
men, accustomed to the glare, made shift to primitive shelters from the
_herios_. The ponies stood up well, and the camels were calm as ever.
Oh, the heat of that frightful noon-day! We did not wish to eat, and put
off meals until the evening. The men were now on dates and rice, as we
had no dried meat, and fresh meat, even if we had been able to get it,
would not have kept an hour.
In the evening we doled out the water, and the ponies got their
insufficient share. Afterwards we marched on, travelling until very
late, or rather early. It was nearly full moon again, and the hideous
parched-up desert looked quite pretty, and was busy trying to pass
itself off as a delectable country. After too little of bed we rose and
toiled on until 9.30, when we caved in, this time very thoroughly,
as Cecily had a bad touch of the sun and was in rather a bad way. But
progress we must, as time was of the utmost consequence. I had a sort
of hammock rigged up, made from a camel mat, with a shelter over it;
and she was carried along in it that evening for some miles. During the
night hours the bigness of the job we had taken on began to appal me. I
wished myself back in the woodlands of Galadi. But it is not of much use
in purgatory to sigh for heaven!
Next dawn we could do no marching at all, and I was forced to use an
unlimited amount of the precious water to keep wet the handkerchief on
Cecily’s burning head, occasionally pouring some over her lavishly and
in regardless-of-consequence fashion. The heat in the tent, as out, was
unspeakable; and I spent most of the hours of that dreadful day fanning
my cousin, who was really in parlous state. Clarence told me late on in
the afternoon we must push on, whatever happened, as the water was very
low indeed. I gave the word, and we marched, Cecily carried as before.
We heard a lion roaring, but did not see anything, and it was not very
likely we should. Night was the only bearable time, and I would it had
perpetually remained night.
Not until the next night did we come on some water-holes, and they were
dry! I could not persuade the men to camp; they said the place was not
good, and mysterious things of that kind. I found out that the place
was supposed to be haunted by spirits of some sort, and it was no use
ordering or commanding, for the men would not stay to spend a night in
the vicinity. We had to go on. Matters were now really serious.
Cecily was much better, though still travelling luxuriously, but there
was not much more than a gallon of water left. We opened a bottle of
lukewarm champagne and drank a little at intervals, but this silly idea
made us nearly frantic with thirst, and we wished we hadn’t thought of
it. The ponies, poor creatures, had been without water for hours, and
their lolling tongues and straining eyes went to our hearts. Cecily was
the more concerned, because she said but for her the water would have
lasted. I assured her it was my prodigality, but in any case it was
water well wasted, as she was almost herself again.
I consulted with Clarence, and we found that by going on, never
stopping, for another twenty miles we should make wells. Twenty miles
was a big thing to us then with horses and men in the state ours were.
I asked them, through Clarence, to “make an effort,” and promised them
water by the morning. We struck camp on a grilling afternoon at 4.30.
Cecily in her hammock, I alternately walking to ease my pony, and then
mounting for a little to ease myself. I will not describe the tramp
through the night, or how very childish the men got. I prefer the
English way of bearing small troubles--in silence. I think it is
embarrassing to be let in on the ground floor of anyone’s emotion.
Let it pass!
A few camel men raced on ahead, and got to the wells before the main
caravan, who were able to quicken the pace pathetically little, and we
made safety, which this time spelt water, about an hour after dawn. I
saw the ponies watered myself before turning in, and I slept eight hours
straight on end.
Going out late in the evening with the object of securing something for
the pot, I came on a regular aviary of birds. Sand grouse and pigeons,
guinea-fowl and wild geese, and small birds too in thousands. I lay down
for a little and watched the small ones preparing for the night. I love
the tiny birds of Somaliland, and never wearied of studying their pretty
ways. It seems to me that they are most beautiful in proportion to their
size of any bird life. The protections, the pleadings, the dances, the
love-making, the little furies, the make-believes, cannot be excelled in
charm.
I was too wearied out to bother much, even though food in plenty was
there to my hand, and I don’t like killing anything so tame, even when I
ought to. When I got back to camp I sent Clarence out with instructions
to shoot some guinea-fowl and geese.
A vast caravan of some hundreds arrived at the wells in the middle of
that night, and things hummed for an hour or so. I was not disturbed,
except by the wrangling that went on all the hours until dawn. It was
very cold, and my “carpet” ended on the top of me!