```Do not give dalliance too much the rein
`````The Tempest=
|When out early one morning a green oasis tempted me to leave the sandy
waste and ramble in among the depths of the aloes, creep in and out
of the festoons of armo, and hunt for anything that might be astir.
Choosing the part where the bushes seemed most willing to admit us, we
crept in--a hunter and I--he of the Cook’s Guide turn of mind. Parting
the creepers as we went, we found it easier than we had thought to
penetrate the density.
On almost every branch a chameleon lay basking, dead to all appearances
save for the eternal wakefulness of their eyes. In a glade where the
grass grew high there was a whirr and a rush. Some small animal was
startled. But we saw nothing. The hunter prepared to account for it, but
I would have none of it, and silenced him with a look. I was there to
read the book of the wild for myself, not to have it read aloud.
A tree snake dropped from his low perch on a thorn bush, and wriggled
away in the thicket. Two distinct lines of brown marked him, and that
was all I saw. He gave me “creeps,” and I turned away in an opposite
direction. Sometimes a bit of thorn would hold me lovingly, and all my
blandishments could not make it let me go. I only obtained freedom with
leaving a piece of my coat as tribute. Vulturine guinea-fowl ran at the
sight of us, raising their naked necks and setting off at great speed to
make safety. They are beautiful birds, and the prismatic colours of the
feathers show up against the green of the armo very distinctly. Doves
cooed above us, but I could not catch a glimpse of one. As we neared the
middle of the oasis we came on a few scattered half-eaten bones--a dead
lesser koodoo. He had furnished a meal for a lion, doubtless, and later
for one of his own people. One or two varieties of antelope are very
fond of nibbling dry white bones.
We took a turn to the right, and on the instant a beautiful lesser
koodoo took a gigantic leap over an in-the-way bunch of aloe scrub.
He disappeared into a thicket and I stood motionless listening. So I
suspect did my koodoo. All was still, but only for a moment. The amateur
Cook’s Guide got entangled somehow or other with a trailing creeper, and
to my complete horror and amazement let off my .500 Express which he was
carrying. He must have been holding it in very unskilled fashion. The
bullet missed my head by a couple of inches. I felt the whiz of it
and heard it ricochet into the trees. I was so unnerved I sat down and
thought things out. My hunter was quite oblivious to any shock I
might have received, because the stock of the rifle had hit him hard
somewhere--I was too vexed to inquire the exact location--and he
bewailed his misfortune. I ordered him to go home to camp and leave me,
which he did with alacrity. After about half an hour my trembling fit
passed. It was very cowardly to be so upset, but I hate unknown and
quite unforeseen dangers, and an unsuspected bullet at close quarters
demoralises me.
I sat on quietly, and the bush began to stir and take up its daily round
again, forgetting the demon crash that had disturbed its slumbers. A
little red velveteen spider ran speedily up an armo leaf, tumbled over
the edge and suspended himself on a golden wire. Jerk! jerk! Lower he
went, then up again. Two bars of his house completed, when alas, a great
fly of the species that haunted our trophies, flew right across and
smashed the spider-house to nothing. The velveteen spider sat on
a leaf--fortunately he had made safety ere the Juggernaut passed
along--and meditated, but only for a moment. He was a philosopher and
knew all about the “Try, try, try again” axiom. Over he hurled himself
on another golden thread and laid another criss-cross foundation-stone.
And there I left him because I wanted to penetrate farther.
How could I manoeuvre a big antelope now if I shot one, seeing that my
hunter had left me? Was it not counting my chickens? Yes, but that is
what one does all the time in big game shooting!
In one bit of glade I worked my way through the caterpillars had played
devastator; every leaf was eaten. I hurried on. I rested again on a
fallen guda tree, hunting first to see no snake shared my seat with
me. I kept utterly silent for an hour or more, when my patience was
rewarded. Through the bushes I saw a white chin bobbing up and down
as it chose out the most succulent thorns. Lower it went. I hardly
breathed. To see a lesser koodoo in his haunts one sometimes has to wait
for months. Here was I, in the limits of a morning’s patrol, so lucky.
The great broad ear flickered in and out. Because this antelope mostly
lives in thick cover where quick hearing is his only safety, his ear
has grown in accordance with necessities. Somali hunters never seem to
differentiate between the koodoo and the lesser koodoo. They are both
one and the same to them, and are called “Godir” indiscriminately.
And yet the two animals are so different it seems absurd to think of
confusion.
The koodoo (_strepsiceros koodoo_) is the biggest antelope in
Somaliland, heavy, magnificent and warlike. It inhabits mountainous
parts, and the reason would seem to be plain. Space for such great horns
is required, and though on occasion they frequent jungly parts of
the Golis, their nature and habit is to live in the stony gorges, and
stalking one is not unlike stalking one of our own Scotch deer. The
lesser koodoo (_strepsiceros imberbis_) is the personification of all
the graces. What the koodoo gains in majesty the lesser has in exquisite
symmetry of line and contour. The lesser koodoo never grows much larger
than a small donkey, the horns are replicas in little of the average
three footer of the koodoo, and there is no beard, but a short mane.
Like the koodoo, the lesser is striped down each side like the white
ribs of a skeleton.
My friend still fed, rustling the bushes as he chose out his favourite
herbage. I had seen nothing to fire at, but, in any case, I did not mean
to try for him, as in my lone condition it would mean a return to camp
for assistance, and meanwhile the beautiful antelope would be food for
any prowling beast. I hated at all times to kill wastefully. The head of
the lesser koodoo looked, as far as I could see, a fair one, the light
of the sun glinting through the shadowy depths occasionally caught the
curving horns. But since he might not be mine, since I could not get him
back to camp, I would not kill wantonly.
In speaking of the wholesale slaughter of Somaliland fauna by sportsmen
and sportsmen so-called, one ought really to include the Somalis
themselves. They have assisted materially to decimate the country--of
elephants particularly. On lions they have not made much impression, as
these animals are too big a job to tackle unless they are driven to it.
But in the days when the elephant roamed the land, their slaughter for
the sake of the ivory was wholesale, terrific and amazing. Clarence, who
was of the Gadabursi country, well remembers his father and his tribe
hunting the elephant on a colossal scale, killing several a week. The
manner of it was courageous, to say the least. The tribe went out,
mounted on swift ponies, and the marked-down elephant being selected
from the herd, he was ridden down in the open. One agile Somali would
caper in front of the pachyderm to attract his attention, and a rider at
the gallop would pass in swift flying rush behind and cut the ham-string
or tendon of one of the hind legs. The elephant would then be at the
mercy of the hunters. It must have been a dangerously exciting business.
The sword used--I saw one in the hut of a Mullah at the Upper Sheik--is
of native make, apparently, strong, and longer in the blade than the
bilâwa, which is often seen in its scabbard of white leather bound round
the waist of a Somali. It was not unlike the familiar sword known to us
as the “Dervish”--two-edged, with a groove down the centre, and light.
The handle was of horn, and bound about with leather. And yet we think
ourselves brave to venture in the vicinity of my lord the elephant with
the latest thing in rifles in our hands!
What with the ham-stringing, and all hunters killing cows and bulls
indiscriminately, the result has been that the elephant has left his old
haunts, never to return. The Somalis wasted the entire carcase. They do
not care to eat the flesh, and even the hide is not so beloved as
that of the oryx and rhino. The Somali tusks were never of the vast
proportions attained in other parts of Africa. Ivory still forms part of
the stock of some trading caravans, so the elephants must exist in the
flesh somewhere in Somaliland, unless these traders trade with others
again at the rear of the back of beyond.
A twig cracked! No twig of mine, I swear, since I sat like a statue
carved in stone. My foot had long since gone to sleep, and pins
and needles pricked it. The bushes trembled, then were still, and
stealthily, with very little movement, the beautiful antelope moved
away. I saw him as he circled round a bend in the jungle, and in a flash
he was gone. Really I had enjoyed my morning as keenly as though I had
added to my bag an hundredfold.
And so back to camp I went, and as I went I notched the trees that I
might find the right place in my “Hedd-Godir” (koodoo forest) again.
I wanted Cecily to come with me and try and track my friend the lesser
koodoo. When I got home, I found all the men congregated round one whom
they said was grievously hurt through a camel falling on him. I
couldn’t find anything wrong, no broken bones, but the man said the pain
internally was very great, almost unbearable. I got out my hypodermic
syringe and injected some of the morphia we had in case of emergencies
into the arm, to the wonderment of the men, and then I had the invalid
placed down on a camel-mat to sleep, and all the other men were
forbidden to disturb the invalid. And lo! when the effects of the
morphia wore off we heard no more of aches and pains. It was _the_ cure
of the trip. And the “coogeri” medicine was held in high esteem ever
afterwards. I asked what “coogeri” meant, and was told--“inside.”
Sitting on a camp chair in peace and quietness, with a book and the cup
that cheers, Clarence broke in on us to say that a party of twenty-five
horsemen had arrived prepared to dibaltig before us--Heaven only knows
why, or where the men had dropped from. With as good grace as we could,
and a cup of tea in hand, we went outside the zareba to see a crowd of
Somalis, mounted, in the usual lively get-up, _khaili_ tobes, shields,
spears, and the other necessaries of performers of the dibâltig. The
ponies were so be-tasselled on a bright red band over the eyes, I don’t
know how they were to see the way at all. One stalwart, the head-man of
the party, had decorated his steed with a frill of lions’ mane around
its neck, fastening in front with a large bunch of yellow ribbons. Very
hot and uncomfortable for the pony, but very effective and circus-like.
“Salaam aleikum,” and “Mot! Mot! io Mot!” Then the chorister-in-chief
(these dibâltig performances are somewhat like the “waits” at Christmas)
began a long song, all--Clarence said--about us, wishing us health,
happiness, and many wives.
“Wives, Clarence?”
“So says the song.”
“Then say we can’t have wives, because we are not sahibs, and some day
we shall be wives ourselves.”
“With luck!” ejaculated Cecily.
Clarence translated, and a perfect tremor of excitement shook the whole
team. The horsemen pressed closer, and gazed at us until their eyes
nearly dropped out of their heads. Laughing at the intensity of the
inspection, we took our hats off and bowed. Our hair might be considered
adequate proof of Mem-sahibdom. Goodness knows what the team considered
it. They drew back and talked and jabbered and discussed.
To dibâltig or not to dibâltig, that is the question. And how we _hoped_
they would answer it in the negative, and let us get back to tea.
With a wild war-whoop the matter was decided, and girding up their
loins, away and away, hither and thither dashed the performers, throwing
spears, catching them, jumping off the pony, then vaulting the saddle,
then back again, finally gaining a seat face to tail. A real circus show
this. Going at a mad gallop the riders would suddenly jerk the bit--a
perfect devil of cruelty--and back the foaming pony would go, haunches
to the ground. Poor creatures, how lathered they were and beside
themselves with the pace and rush. Dust rose in volumes, and we receded
and receded, but the flying figures only drew the circle closer. The
affair went on for a whole hour, when it had to cease because the ponies
were done, and could not keep up the required speed any longer. All the
Somalis came round us, the ponies’ heads facing us, almost touching us,
and we must have been hidden entirely from our own men, because as our
dibâltig friends sat their panting ponies they raised both arms with
spears held high, and dear me, _how_ they shouted that “Mot” sentence.
I signed with my hand that we wished to get out of the circle--it
was not pleasant so near the panting, pawing ponies, and one big
black-looking fellow backed his steed out and made a path. I thanked
them through Clarence and then began the usual palaver about the
inadequacy of the presents.
If every man had to have a tobe it meant twenty-five, and we had to
economise or we should clear out our stock before we finished up at
Berbera. We had started out with several pieces of sheeting, but had
done an immense amount of distributing. A tobe when cut has to be about
twelve times over the length from a man’s elbow to his finger tips. That
is how we measured. We offered half a dozen tobes, and suggested that
the performers should toss up for them.
A hurricane of stormy words ensued, most annoying, as six tobes at a
whack is very generous indeed. The men could not be invited to a meal
because the rice supplies would not bear any undue strain. The affair
ended with the presentation of five good clasp knives. And then the
dissatisfied warriors rode away. We took the opportunity of telling
Clarence that if any more Somalis came bent on doing this dibâltig
performance they must do it on their own. We had seen enough of it. And
run on the present lines it is more expensive than a box at the opera.
We went back to a second tea, and a bath to get rid of the dust that
covered us like flour.
In the evening, Cecily and I again penetrated my koodoo forest by
ourselves, more for the pleasure of wandering in the beautiful oasis
than anything, and our search went farther than my stroll of the
morning. We pushed and crawled our way through the densest thickets that
we might find the reason for such flapping and screaming of dozens and
dozens of vultures, kites and hawks. In a thicket of thorn where the
durr grass grew high, and in patches left off altogether, and exposed
the sand, lay the remains of a lesser koodoo. It had been partially
eaten, but not by vultures, a lion evidently, because it had begun on
the hind quarters and eaten about half the animal. The antelope’s head
was thrown back, and the fore legs were tucked beneath him. The lion
had sprung from the grass straight on to his prey. The horns swept
the hunched shoulders, and I think it must have been my friend of the
morning.
Judging by the way in which the birds were acting, coming near, and
then retiring, and taking into consideration the fact that they had not
ventured to the kill, it was likely that the lion was now lying close
to the meat, watching it, until the internal arrangements permitted of
eating some more. This is a very usual thing with the big cats. Was it
nice to be in this durr grass with a lion, even a fed-up one?
We decided to hurry back to camp and try and get out some of the men
before the light gave in, to build us a “machan” over the dead antelope,
in which we should keep watch and ward all night in the hope of bagging
the lion as he returned to his kill. Our first idea was that one of
us--to be decided by tossing up--should remain in the jungly place
to see that time was not taken by the forelock by his majesty. But,
debating the point, we thought it was going to be a trifle lonely for
the one left behind, with night, and possibly a lion, coming on.
We made our way out as quickly as possible, and careering back to camp
as though all the fiends were after us, brought Clarence and four of the
hunters with axes and _hangols_ to the place where the koodoo had been.
Had been! For there it was not when we returned. The dragging of the
bushes and the crushed grass showed us the way. There at some two
hundred yards off was all that now remained of the lesser koodoo.
[Illustration: 0303]
A flash of sinuous yellow. A cry of “Libbah! Libbah!” from the left-hand
hunter. The durr grass waved, and a fine lioness bounded high and sank
again. Crack! from Cecily’s rifle. She must have been in better place
than I was for a shot. I should have annihilated one of the men had I
blazed away. Crack! again. And then I saw what the redoubtable Cecily
was firing at. Another animal altogether! A massive lion, with an almost
black mane and more cumbersome in the front than any other of his genus
I had ever seen. All lions fall away very much behind, but I really
think this one must have been malformed. However, we never saw him
again, so the point had, perforce, to remain unsettled. As the lion
streaked off, evidently not inconvenienced by Cecily’s bombardment,
his mate made a successful effort to follow his lead. Flat, and low to
earth, snake-like, she crossed the only bare patch of clearing to the
right of me. Still my line of fire was blocked by a hunter who put
himself in my way every time as if by design, and had not the sense
to drop and give me a chance. Still, there was Clarence on the extreme
right, armed with a 12-bore. The lioness would have to run the gauntlet
of his fire. “Mâro! Mâro!” (Shoot! Shoot!) I cried to him in an agony of
nervous Hindostanee.
The imperturbable Clarence did nothing, and let the yellow one pass him.
Cecily was not now so placed that she could get in a successful shot.
Two lions, and both gone! No koodoo left to attract anything save
hyaenas and jackals. When I asked our shikari why on earth he had let
slip so wonderful a chance he was quite calm and said: “Mem-sahib
shoot dar lion. I no shoot dar lion.” Evidently he meant to be very
magnanimous and refrain from poaching on our preserves in the laudable
desire to see we got our money’s worth.
It was now getting dusk, and ominous dark corners told us night had cast
her mantle athwart the trees. I ordered a hunter to cut off the head of
the maltreated lesser koodoo, for the sake of the horns, a very easily
acquired trophy, but one very well worth having. The head was not eaten
at all, for as I have explained it is the habit of lions to begin at the
other end.
Then we tried to get out of the place. We took some tosses over thorn
and bramble, and disturbed the guinea fowl as they settled to roost
in rows on the branches. I upset the equilibrium of a hornbill and his
wife, who flapped and croaked their annoyance at me. Before we were
clear of the oasis, night had settled down in inky blackness, and then
Clarence led us by the hand. I believe he saw in the dark like a cat.
He brought us safe and sound to the sandy waste that rimmed the green
garden, and once there camp was easily reached.
All through the night the lions roared, and we could distinguish the
difference in the voice of the lion to that of his mate. One would have
thought they had eaten too much to roar--a whole lesser koodoo between
them! Perhaps they were protesting that we had docked them of the head.
Next day around the wells near where we were camped the pugs of two
lions stood out clear in the sand, going from the oasis and back. The
wells are too deep for wild creatures to negotiate, but water sometimes
is to be had in the clay troughs used by the camels. These troughs were
very dry, and I’m afraid that the lions went away thirsty. As it seemed
an undoubted fact that the great cats were still in the fastness of
green a mile or more in circumference, it did seem absurd for us to
go on until we had made another effort to secure a fine trophy for the
collection.
At the edge of the oasis, on the north side, before it finally ended in
a yellow waste of sand, stood a few guda trees, difficult to climb, for
no branches hold out kindly assistance for at least sixteen feet from
the roots, when the tree spreads vigorously into fantastic shapes to
the top, which attains a height of some fifty feet. The foliage is
very wide, and beautifully green. Our idea was to climb a guda in the
evening, having tied up a suitable bait below. It had to be a sheep,
because we had no goat. We chose our tree, and when the witching hour
of twilight arrived, armed with climbing-irons we began the ascent
this-wise. First myself, to the astonishment of half our caravan, who
had come to see what they should see. They liked the climbing-irons
immensely. I don’t think they had seen any before.
When I was perched on the bough selected I flung the irons down to
Cecily, who used them. Next, with cords, we drew up the rifles. Clarence
and a hunter used the climbing irons also, and came up like woodpeckers.
The men below tethered the sheep, and departed to camp and bed. It was
not very long before we wished we had had a platform made. Not being
birds, or bird-like, the perching business hurt frightfully. And it was
only by getting well against the trunk we could put up with the
position at all. Clarence lay extended full length along a bough, on the
look-out--“ship-ahoy!” sort of game. The other hunter imagined himself
a Blondin on an insignificant branch beyond me, slightly above me. A
ridiculous situation we were all in. I longed to laugh out loud. But
we had to be very, very silent and hardly move a muscle. After about
an hour I began to get cramp in my foot, and had to press my boot hard
against the bough to try to bear the agony calmly.
A roar broke on the stillness. Things were more interesting for a few
moments, and Clarence’s tense figure outlined on the branch seemed to be
an Argus of many eyes. The Blondin gentleman had got on my nerves long
since, and I wished with all my heart he would take a seat. The clouds
grew darker and darker, and presently rain began to fall, real Somali
rain, not in single drops, but water-spouts. The hunter pirouetting on
the adjacent bough missed his footing and fell to the ground--Somalis
are not the slightest use as tree-climbers--and caused as much
consternation to the sheep as the appearance of the lion could
have done. The man had to be followed by the necessary humanitarian
inquiries, and we reflected that no lion with an ounce of caution about
him would have failed to take warning long ere this. The rain had damped
our ardour as well as our clothes. We voted for camp and bed. Cecily
affixed the irons to her boots and descended, and then I pulled them up
again for my use. Clarence got the rifles down, and the fallen hunter
had no need to get any lower. There we all stood in pouring rain.
Clarence had to lead the hunter who claimed to be badly injured, and
Cecily and I led the sheep.
The caravan was silent, fires out with the rain, but the watch was
alert, for on our approach we heard, “Kuma?” (Who are you?) repeated
twice. Clarence replied “Friends,” and we passed, and all was well--at
least more or less, for the camp was in a dismal state of slop. A big
rain-storm speedily turns the deep sand to mud. The men were sleeping
beneath _herios_, and I think one or two had been making free with our
tents, as they had a very hot native smell about them when we turned in
to rid ourselves of our dripping garments. The canvas residences stood
up well that night and resisted the downpour valiantly. Everything was
damp and fires were impossible.
All the next day the deluge continued. It was no use to attempt to go
a-hunting, as the rain was washing out spoor as fast as the animals
walked. The day dragged through somehow, and bored us almost to tears.
However, night saw a welcome cessation of the rain, and the sky grew
clear and dotted with stars innumerable. The next morning had to see the
camel-mats dried ere they could go on, and the sun was fortunately like
a furnace.
In the evening we were able to trek some eight miles, and formed zareba
by starlight. To get the fires lighted was a great difficulty, and the
cook sent many messages by the “boy,” to encourage us in the belief
supper would be forthcoming if we had the patience to wait long enough.
Chatting over the meal we realised that the hour had come when we might
dawdle no longer. Time and the season bade us make a decided effort
to cross the Haud again now that water was so plentiful. We sent for
Clarence and talked to him, deciding to rise early on the morrow and get
things into trim for the great undertaking.