```The day shall not be up so soon as I,
```To try the fair adventure of the morn
`````King John=
```We are blessed in this man, as I may say, even blessed
`````Winter’s Tale=
|The sun shall not be up so soon as I. Indeed, I had a whole half-hour’s
start of him, while I put my house in order. I prepared in my own way
for the fair adventure of the morn, and told Cecily where to look for
my will. She was in wild spirits, and chaffed me no end. She saw to
her armoury, and asked me over and over to eat more. But I said I felt
exactly like a man about to be hanged, of whom you read in the next
day’s papers: “The prisoner made a most excellent breakfast.”
Out we started, Clarence, the Somali who joined our forces at the spot
where the camels tried a course of mud baths, four hunters, and two
syces. We followed the old spoor for miles, but it was at last apparent
that the pachyderm we were after had by this time travelled far out of
our ken. We sat down to cogitate, and the hunters went off spooring on a
detour of their own.
In the thick jungle we disturbed a few baby ostriches. I could not count
how many, because they scattered right and left, thrown into panic by
the shameless desertion of the little brood by their father, who making
a direct bid for his own safety, took a beeline out of our radius. I
cornered one little fluffy yellow and black bird, and could have caught
him had I wished. He was about twelve inches high, very important
looking, and his bright black boot-button eyes gazed at me unblinkingly.
Stout little yellow legs supported the tubby quaint body, and then I let
him pass to gain solitude and his brothers. We did not war with ostrich
babies. I had rather a contempt for that cock bird. Imagine leaving his
children like that! And yet, considered in the abstract, an ostrich
of all other denizens of the wild world stands for respectability and
staunchness of purpose. He pairs for life. None of your gad-about ideas
for him. One life, one love, is the ostrich motto, and if he finds
the “Ever and ever, Amen” variety of domesticity spells satiety almost
invariably, well, he is no different from other two-footed creatures we
know. Nature is the same wherever or however we find it.
The ostrich does not _look_ a happy bird. His sad pathetic face makes
one think something in this “sorry scheme of things entire” does not
altogether satisfy. What the ostrich really needs is a matrimonial
system whereby these birds might take each other on the lease principle,
as we do houses, with the option of renewal. Things would brighten up
for them, I am sure, considerably. I don’t know how we can arrange
it, or even put the suggestion to them. Perhaps some intensely knowing
person could arrange this, the editor of the halfpenny patron of
patriotism, for instance. He understands everything. The suggested lease
system would add considerable zest to life in the ostrich world, as
indeed it would in many others. Just before the lease fell in Madame
Ostrich would assure her husband that the very last idea she had would
be its renewal. For all masculinity wants is that, and that only, which
is denied him. Mr. Ostrich would feel that the renewal of the lease was
the be-all of everything, and the fattest slugs, the best bit of ground
for finding tit-bits upon, and the least prickly walks in the jungle
would all be offered as persuasive arguments. The general pleasantness
would last them both for weeks.
A hunter reported he had come on a maze of rhino tracks. Allowing for
the usual exaggeration, we judged one rhinoceros might be get-at-able.
On investigation, we found that one had passed through the thickish
country, and that very recently. Joy!--for Cecily! Hastily we left our
ponies in charge of the syces, detailed two other hunters to remain
also, and with the remaining followers prepared to stalk. Often the
spoor was lost for a hundred yards or so, but our very able shikaris
never failed to pick it up again, and though the going was exceedingly
heavy, we made fair progress. We saw numerous oryx and dibitag, one
of the latter passing so near me that I exchanged glances with her at
twenty-five yards. But, of course, “the likes of them” were safe from us
now.
We sped across an open bit, and then into another belt of jungle.
The whole aspect of the spot looked to me as the very place to see a
repetition of the Baron disaster. We plunged into the ubiquitous thorn,
starting a frightened dik-dik as I took my header. Crawling, pushing,
scratching, we won our way to comparatively clear ground. Clarence
raised his hand for utter silence. We heard a scrunching and breaking of
thorns. A great beast was a-travelling. Maybe he had winded us or
been disturbed. And then “a strange thing happened.” I, who had been
absolutely impassive up to now, was drawn into the mesh of desire. The
effects of rhino shooting on me is like unto the results of champagne
drinking on Brillat-Savarin, at first (_ab initio_) most exciting,
afterward (_in rccessu_) stupefying. I was now thoroughly game for
anything. But kept my reason in sufficient bounds to remember that thick
thorn cover is not an ideal place to meet a rhino in.
We did a most careful stalk, creeping towards the place of the sounds,
under Clarence’s complete directions. At last, he alone pressed on with
us, the others willingly remaining where he signalled. We were not now
in overwhelmingly thick thorn, but it was too dense to be pleasant, and
necessitated our handling our rifles with the greatest care. After
a hard few minutes we sank down to rest. Our rifles covered a small
clearing.
The game of all sizes had made tunnels through the jungly place, high
enough in some parts for us to stand upright, and all seemed to lead to
this open glade. Flies in myriads were buzzing about the undergrowth,
a reddish squirrel, with bushy tail, jerked towards me on a fallen
guda tree, then with a chatter made off among the branches. The air was
simply stifling with dry heat, and I was thirsty beyond words.
Wonder of wonders! A dark ponderous bulk loomed on the left of us, under
a great guda tree, overhung with armo creeper. The great head came well
into view, all unconscious of intruders. The beast was lunching,
eating his favourite bushes, and munching steadily. This was not at all
sporting--it seemed so simple.
Cecily gently pushed the muzzle of her 12-bore through the sheltering
thorns, and was able to take careful and steady aim at the rhino’s
ear. She was in excellent range. It is no use trying for a rhino at a
distance exceeding eighty, or at the most, ninety yards. Bang! The smoke
hung for a moment, obscuring everything. The animal seemed to stagger to
the shot. And then, on the instant, with snorts and squeals, small
out of all proportion to the size of the emitter, charged across the
intervening space. Then when he made the jungle he as quickly dashed
back again. I was very anxious for Cecily to have this shoot all to
herself, and though I had a glorious chance of a heart shot from my
position, I held my fire.
I am not very clear what happened next, and when I apply to my cousin
she says, “I’m sure I cannot tell you.” I think Cecily came dangerously
forward. The rhino turned on our inadequate fortress of mimosa, and as
the peril swept upon us we seemed to gather wit and sense to combat the
danger. Separating widely as the beast plunged straight in where we had
been, we turned on him, simultaneously, to fire. Then we branched
off again, at right angles. I fell into a thorn bush, and took the
opportunity of comparative safety to reload. Cecily was now dancing
about in the open, in a most sporting but in no sense a common-sense
fashion. For a dreadful instant I feared the result. The rhino bull took
up a large circle with its careering and struggles, and the dust was so
great that from my post I could not clearly see the finish. I heard the
rifle crack twice again, and then a ringing shout for me came. There lay
the mighty carcase in a kneeling attitude. A mountain of flesh indeed!
[Illustration: 0281]
Cecily had a great gash on her wrist, caused, I fancy, by some sharp
flint stone, and the blood was running down her rifle as she held it at
the trail. She was too excited to speak, and there was no calming her
down. She really seemed like a person in a dream. I announced to her
solemnly it was to be our last rhino shoot. The tension relaxed then,
and she laughed at my serious face.
A series of whistles brought up the hunters, and the last phase began.
Cecily and I set off to find our ponies, and, full of elation, made for
camp and tea. We had tea at all hours of the day, finding it the most
refreshing of anything, and I don’t really think it affected our nerves
one scrap.
It was rather late when our men reached camp, laden with treasure. They
brought the rhino’s feet, his tail, his head, and some of his skin.
There was no reason why they should not have brought it all. It comes
off quite easily. They said they had not time, as they feared being
bushed, or that lions would be attracted to the spot by the smell of
blood. The skin is very valuable to the Somalis for shields, and many
other purposes, and we rather thought it was a put up business to secure
half the rhino hide for themselves. We thought of going back then and
there and seeing the thing finished, but Clarence said it was such a
long way off, the result would be we would all assuredly be caught out
in the bush at night. I suppose he was right. They had us fairly.
The Somalis don’t care for eating rhino, and I cannot say the flesh
looks very inviting, but we got the chef to make us some soup of the
tail, which you hear so well spoken of by all travellers. I do not think
our opinion can be considered a fair one. It would have been a better
soup had we made it ourselves. Our cook could not cook anything
properly, and the tail and taste of it, if there had been either in the
pan at any time, was drowned in a waste of water.
Before the great pachyderm began to be dismembered we measured him, and
his waist, or where his waist should be if he had one, was by the
tape, seven feet three inches. I don’t know what a fashionable belle
rhinoceros would think of that. In length he was a shade over ten feet,
but this was not a very large animal as they go. We set to work helping
to stretch and clean and saltpetre. The anterior horn was much blunted
at the tip, the result of some accident or wear and tear of some kind,
so that it lost half an inch or so in length. But eleven inches looks
formidable enough, on such a fearsome head. The eyes are ridiculously
small in a rhino. I think to such altogether inadequate optics much of
the bad sight put down to the rhino must be ascribed. One would hardly
think every single animal of this variety starts its career with bad
sight, but that is what every hunter tells you. Go nap every time on the
non-seeing powers of your enemy if he happens to be a rhinoceros if you
like, but see there is a tree to get behind before you begin. This is
advice from myself.
Next day was a poor one as far as sport was concerned. We were very
stiff with so much crawling, though at the time we had not noticed it.
We sent off a few men to retrieve the rest of the hide from the remains
of the rhino, and when the camp was quiet we investigated the trophies,
and overhauled them carefully. Some of them cried aloud in their agony
for attention. The skin of the last killed lion was beginning to lose
some hair in parts. And this was because, when we undid it and looked
behind, great lumps of flesh still adhered, making it impossible for
the preservatives to do any curing. It took us a long time to set this
right, and we rubbed alum in as hard as we could on the inside. Of
course, if the skinning is not carefully done, the chances are the
trophy will have to be thrown away. I don’t know how we should have
taken a catastrophe of such magnitude.
The men returned to say the skin of the rhino was not to be found. I
don’t suppose they had even been to the spot. I am confident they had,
in some mysterious way, managed to let their friends know a wealth of
shields were to be had for the taking. There was nothing left of our
huge friend of the day before, so the men said. Wild beasts had eaten
him.
Later, I heard a great shouting in camp and calls for us, and answering
in person, I saw Clarence seated on a pony, proudly displaying and
offering to me a baby oryx, which he had in front of him. We lifted the
mite down, holding it, all struggling, firmly. It was terror-stricken,
poor wee thing. I tried to stroke its satin coat, but it only started
and looked at me with frightened piteous beseeching eyes. Clarence meant
well, but oh, I would a thousand times he had left the kid with its
mother. And then a thought struck me. How had he come by this fleet
thing? May be killed the doe and then ridden the baby down. Instantly I
put it to him. I know I frowned. But he disarmed me by saying the matter
was not as I thought, and the mother was alive, unharmed; that he had
ridden them down until the little oryx, spent, had to drop, and the
mother fled away in fear before his threatening gestures.
I consulted with Cecily, and we came to the conclusion that if we wanted
to please Clarence there was nothing for it but to keep the buck, but
after mixing it some condensed milk, which we gave it in a bottle with a
bit of rubber tubing on the neck, we realised that to retain our little
guest meant _our_ going without milk in our tea for weeks. Camel milk
was not available, and the baby could not eat. I was thankful of a
reasonable excuse to offer Clarence, and he saw the sense of it. I
longed to restore the tiny creature to its mother, and Clarence said if
we took it back to the place from whence it came the doe would assuredly
find it.
We decided to try this, but to secrete ourselves, and cover the baby
buck with our protecting rifles. Otherwise, it was quite on the cards
that a lion or leopard would make off with it ere its mother could
retrieve it. In any case, I should imagine a violent death awaited it.
It was so very youthful and easily stalked. I took the timorous creature
across my saddle, it seemed all struggling legs and arms, and with
Clarence for guide made for the place, some two miles off, where he
first started the oryx. I confess I still had my doubts as to his tale
and its veracity, but in this I wronged our shikari.
We set the baby down alone, so fragile and small it looked, and then hid
ourselves in a great thorn brake. We were as far off as we dared go, and
the buck did not wander far. Sometimes it bleated in a little treble,
once or twice it lay down, tucking its long legs beneath it, to rise
again and wander, all lonely, among the low thorn bushes. Two hours or
more we waited and then--a gentle whinny, and almost before we realised
it, a perfect oryx doe cantered towards the fawn. She nosed it all over
and her joy expressed itself in every imaginable way. It was a most
beautiful and pathetic sight. We made some movement, and all alert
again, the graceful creature sailed away, the baby trotting beside. My
eyes were full of tears, and I had a lump in my throat. ’Twas pitiful,
’twas wondrous pitiful. To think that in all the jungle a mother could
find her way to the lost best beloved with nothing to guide her, nothing
to tell her. Clarence took it all most naturally, and said all female
things are like that. I do almost believe him!
*****
The sun sailed high in a sky of molten brass, the hot sand blistered the
palm set down on it, not a breath of air was stirring. And I, foolish
wight, was stalking, on hands and knees, a hartebeest. A family of ants
had crawled up my sleeve. I went too near their palace, I suppose, and
they mistook the way. A yellow snake, small, wicked-looking, and alert,
lay right in my path. Not for a hundred hartebeest would I disturb him!
I made a great detour, to the wonderment of Clarence, who trailed along
in my wake. When he saw he wondered no longer. He has learned now, and
thinks snakes are a sort of mania of mine, and that I must be humoured.
Great bluebottle flies jumped up in our faces from the red-hot sand,
then--buzz--and down again. Oh, for some shade--some air--some water!
There was my hartebeest again, with well-groomed coat and flicking
tail. The flies were a worry to him too. Now he gets beyond a bunch
of aoul--his sentinels. I shall never get within range. I lay my
rifle down, myself with it. I can’t see the hartebeest, the aoul, the
flies--there is nothing anywhere but a golden maze of light, and a world
of noisy hammers in my ears.
’Twas nothing, just a mild touch of the sun, and next day Richard was
himself again, and out with the second hunter, like a French falconer,
prepared to fly at anything. Only we chose towards evening for our
hunting.
Our ponies carried us through most of the dense country, but sometimes
we had to get off and seek an easier way round. We saw tracks of all
varieties of game, but for an hour or more had the jungle apparently to
ourselves. We were leading our steeds, when we crossed a great find, a
place where a lion had been lying, may be after some great banquet. The
thorns had taken his size and shape like a mould, and his hairs were all
about to betray his whilom presence. The hunter spoored about and picked
up the lion trail some little way off. The ground being so loose and
sandy made no good evidence of time. The pugs might have been made
now, or that morning. We went on silently and after not more than five
minutes going, with an electric-like shock, I realised that a lion stood
over a kill to our immediate front. He winded us, and stretching his
great neck and head upwards to sniff in magnificent disregard bounded
into the thicket, the tuft on his tail being the last glimpse I caught
of him. I was too taken aback to even try to get my rifle up. It all
happened so very swiftly. We were a very small party to tackle a lion in
thick cover, but my man was a little Trojan and did not hesitate when
I said I would proceed and he must take a hand at the game. He was
carrying my 12-bore, and I had my .500 Express.
First we tethered the ponies, thinking they would be quite safe as
we should be in the near vicinity, then we commenced to beat after a
fashion of our own. Walking as straight ahead as we could, pushing and
struggling through where we couldn’t. We fired into the dusky depths
in desperation at last, but nothing happened. It was not until we had
covered a few hundred yards more before we saw, in a lightening of the
undergrowth, a sinuous yellow form streaking along. The hunter in his
excitement brought up his rifle. I held his arm. The danger was too
great. If a wounded lion turned on us here we were done for, hemmed in
as we were. We saw no more of him, he had put some distance between us,
and “on my life, had stol’n him home to bed.”
It was a great disappointment, but, after all, there isn’t much sport in
courting disaster. The chances should be almost even, a little in favour
of the animal, not entirely so.
The ponies had untethered themselves, it doesn’t say much for the way we
secured them, I’m afraid, and had betaken their way campwards. We had
to track their hoof marks that we might also cut a long journey short.
Night was closing in, and we wanted the shelter of our zareba. And
supper, oh, supper! most of all!
We had no special time for meals in camp. A system that would properly
disgust a good housewife. The cook had to produce food whenever we
required some, at any time, early or late. It did not make for good
cooking; but then, neither did the chef.