```Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirch’d
```With rainy marching in the painful field,
```And time has worn us into slovenry,
```But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim
`````King Henry V=
|At night came that weird lowing sound a leopard often makes when
hunting. Our friend of the afternoon, of course. He wakened us up, and
we turned out to see that the watch happened to be on the alert. It
would be a parlous thing if we lost any of the precious trophies now
when the expedition was almost over--not that taxidermine-covered
skins and heads would be the sort of feast that would appeal to a saucy
leopard. Then silence again.
Next day one of our hunters heard of a neighbouring _karia_ losing a
sheep the previous night. It was struck down but not removed. I had
heard of such a thing before, and believe it to be an undoubted fact
that a leopard kills on occasion for mere lust.
Cecily and I went to the _karia_, which was perched on a plateau
surrounded with slopes covered with aloes. Quite a natural fortress,
and one that might be most easily guarded from the incursions of wild
beasts. But the Somalis seem to me to introduce the kismet idea into
every phase of their everyday life. Any easily avoided disaster is
accepted in this fashion.
The head-man gave us all the particulars. A leopard had indeed entered
the _karia_, killed a sheep, and then left the carcase. We begged for
the remains, and for a consideration got them. Clarence bestowed them
at the foot of the rise in open ground, by a brake of aloes and thick
cover. The men set about constructing a “machan” in the jungly place,
and kept guard till sunset, when Cecily and I took the job on. We
climbed into our refuge; it was intensely rickety, and rocked every
time we made the least movement. I was no more enamoured of this sort of
sport than before, and suppose we were doing it because we felt the trip
being so nearly over it was foolish now to miss any chance whatever. For
once in a way we were both rather uninterested, a fatal frame of mind in
this sort of an affair. We were bitterly cold, and I could hardly hold
my rifle at all. Hours seemed to drag along, minutes really. I had to
strike a light, whatever the consequence, to ascertain the time. It
was 12 a.m. Oh, for bed and this sort of sport at an end! Another weary
silence. I slept, I believe, with one eye open. Then an ominous rustle,
and a lightning whirr and rush, succeeded by a blank silence again.
Whatever had happened now? We listened and gazed attentively, but no
more sounds reached our straining ears. Over all the jungle brooded a
stillness that could almost be felt. Then Cecily, whose sight is better
than mine, said it was plain to be seen even in the blackness that
surrounded us that the carcase of the sheep was no longer there. After
that, what a weary night. We did not care to risk getting out, and there
was no good to be done in staying in. The dawn broke at last, falsely
at first, and dark gray shadows fell again to flee away before the all
conquering sun, who rose in splendour, gilding the lofty ranges with
tips of gold and red.
We pushed our way out, not waiting for the men to come and let us free,
and the whole show, unable to hold up any longer, fell over with us. It
was very badly put together, and would have been a pantomime protection
in case of stress. We were dishevelled looking before, and worn out for
want of sleep, but we were objects by the time we had fought our way
from out the collapsed “machan.” We followed the pugs of the leopard
till they disappeared in impenetrable bush. He had taken his victim to
a safe stronghold. But we weren’t to be worsted so easily. When Clarence
appeared we asked him the best plan for dislodging the cat, who must be
gorged now, and a little overdone. Our shikari said he would order some
of the men out and try to beat the place. I asked him to take the .35
Winchester himself, and use it if he could. Then began a lively morning.
The men beat the place with their spears in sort of flying rushes,
dashing forward, then dashing back, and at last, as we really made the
radius of the place smaller, we heard a continuous snarling, like that
a domestic cat makes when it has a mouse in its paws, only this was much
more vicious and sounding louder.
I stood close to the jungle, and Clarence begged me to stand a little
farther off. This I did not care to do. The men were not armed, bar
their spears, and it seemed unfair to expose them so without giving them
the protection of one’s rifle. Cecily was doing the same thing on her
side of the brake, where the men were spearing bravely and shouting
lustily. We fired into the undergrowth, but it was of no avail; still
the ominous snarling kept up, still the animal would not break cover. I
made up my mind I would try and see if I could not get a shot into him
somehow, so I took on the silly job of crawling very slowly down the
rough trail made through the dense bush by the dragging of the sheep.
I came on its remains almost at once. The leopard, where was he? Then
I saw it in one brief second. What a face of rage and fury! I dare not
fire. I backed hurriedly, getting clear of the place, and then fired
twice into the very place where I judged the leopard lay up. A rush.
Out he came, rather from the side, looking like a fiend let loose. I was
glad we were not bang in his path. I could not get a shot in at all, for
one of the hunters, in the warmth of his earnest efforts, put himself in
my light. There was Cecily, she blazed away; there was Clarence, whose
rifle spoke, but I heard his bullet strike a rock behind. The leopard,
with lithe swinging bounds, was up the clefts of the ravine in a moment.
I threw up my rifle and had a try for him. No result. He was lost to
sight. Four of the men went to the top of the ravine and descended
carefully, reporting the leopard to be in a sort of cave between two
boulders. We must get there too, of course, which would be a prodigious
bit of climbing. Cicely said she was confident her bullet told; I know
mine didn’t. We reached the spot where the animal was ensconced, and
there, sure enough, we could see, if we stooped, his crouched shoulders,
head dropped on paws, eyes gleaming defiance. He was a foe to be afraid
of, and I _was_ afraid for consequences. The men were in such dangerous
positions, and all of us had such insecure foothold. In case of a charge
from the leopard one or more would certainly go over the rocks to the
bottom of the gorge, a very nasty fall indeed. I made up my mind I would
finish it. I walked as carefully as I could towards my enemy, rifle
ready, expecting the very worst every minute. I drew a bead on its
head. Fired! A moment of such intense anxiety. No movement. We advanced
cautiously. The great cat was dead. A passive ending indeed.
By all the laws of first blood he belonged to Cecily. She had got him
very much indeed, in the base of the spine. He was done for when I shot
him, and it is questionable if he had the power to move at all. Indeed,
his ascent of the place, wounded where he was, seemed to us a wonderful
feat. The men extricated the beautiful thing; he was somewhat aged, with
old teeth, and skin much scarred and seamed with fighting. The head-man
from the _karia_ was very much delighted, for he insisted the leopard
was one for whom they had long looked to make an end of. He had struck
down a Somali, who was only saved by the spears of his friends. The
yellow danger lurked in rocks, and would, from all accounts, probably
have developed into a man-eater. We were glad to have finished his
career.
All the flies in all the world seemed to join in at the skinning, and we
went back to camp, breakfast, and a bath of sorts.
We rested that day, seeing to all the trophies, the new acquisition
included, instructing the men where to rub the skins and where not.
Taking them all round, every specimen was in good condition.
We progressed during the evening hours as long as the light held. The
climbing was now quite a big thing, and for one step forward we seemed
to go two back. A sounder of wart-hog crossed our front, and Cecily
bagged a small sow, quite by mistake, but it was the animal’s own fault
for growing tushes. This freak occurs often, and I don’t think one can
be blamed if accidents happen through this mistaken habit. Accidents
always do happen when femininity adopts the attributes which are the
prerogative of the masculine gender. Anyway, the pig was a great luxury
in the way of a change on the daily menu. Of course we had to dress
it ourselves--a bit of a set back. We fried some chops for supper that
night, and smiled to ourselves as we thought we could almost rival
Chicago for quick despatch.
The next big undertaking was the negotiating of the Upper Sheik, a big
affair indeed, and we set off with not a few qualms as to our success.
The foremost camel looked as though if he fell he must carry all the
others with him in swift rush downwards. We took care to lead the van.
“The morning was one of God’s own, done by hand, just to show what
He could do.” We climbed up and up, painstakingly and ploddingly, and
presently saw the rugged way over which we had come far below us. We had
then been marching close on two hours, and must have done less than four
miles. A little lonely _karia_ was perched on a terraced outlook away
to the west, its inhabitants strolling out lazily to watch our progress.
Half a mile or so off was the Sheik Argudub’s tomb, a white dome-shaped
structure, glinting in the sun, and looking for all the world like a
replica of some massive wedding-cake. The whole scene was now grandly
picturesque in the extreme, and gaining the top of the pass a wondrous
panorama lay spread at our feet. Wealth of colour sprang voluptuous
around us: here a mass of green merging to purple, there pale tints
of cream and brown, aesthetic and delicate. Everywhere great ravines
yawned, black and mysterious. Farther off, the vast Marmitime Plain, and
miles on miles away, thirty or more, a tiny dark blue riband, fringing
the whole, told us that the sea was there. Valleys, ravines, mountains,
rivers too, helped out the beauteous scene, and above all, rising
superior, was Mount Wager, mightiest of all the Golis.
We camped in this delightful place, overlooking a vista I can never
forget. Preying vultures kept watch over infinite space, in widening
circles. A hot wind blew through the camp. Here at last, for the moment,
we could see about us without that smoke-like dust to curtain all
things. The light of the setting sun limned clear the mighty peaks, and
brooding night swept gently down the slopes and wrapped the world in
sombre garb. The wild eerie grandeur of it impressed me greatly, and I
simply could not leave our terraced plateau, but beneath the arch of the
stars sat on and marvelled. Then, as though by some special arrangement
of Providence for our good entertainment, a mighty storm brewed itself
sullenly away over the Marmitime, then crept insidiously to the Golis,
and broke in majesty. The bombardment lasted for an hour or more,
reverberating through every pass and every ravine; the heavens were
alight with wondrous flashes, that rent the air in forked spears,
striking down to the depths of the darkest crevass.
We were as safe outside the tent as in, I think, but nowhere very safe,
the lightning grew so close. Some of the men got under _herios_, some
even under the standing camels, a nice Juggernaut to run the risk
of bringing down on one’s devoted head. Then, gradually the wildness
passed, and spent itself in deep-tongued mutterings and distant murmurs.
Then came the rain, Somali rain, and we had to shelter. Cecily’s
treasure had made us our inevitable nightcap--tea--before the streams of
water drenched his fire. Thanks be!
I pictured in my mind the days when herds of elephants roamed the Golis
valleys, and the lion woke the still ravines with resonant sound. Alas!
this place will know them no more.
The Sheik Pass is, of course, christened after the old gentleman who is
buried in the wedding-cake arrangement, and not very far from our camp
was an immense cemetery where many thousands of people are buried.
Clarence took us also to the ruins of a one-time city, now covered
with grass and aloe growth. How ancient the place is I cannot say with
accuracy, but it looked very ancient indeed. Not far away at the Upper
Sheik is a large Somali village, a Mullah settlement, and the Sheik
there, a very enlightened person indeed, told us that the remains of the
city are not really very antediluvian, and is the site of the homes of
the early settlers from the Yemen. As we neither of us knew anything
about such influx we kept silent, to conceal our ignorance. Quite a lot
of the tracery on the stones which satisfied un-archæological people
like ourselves is nothing but decorative work carved by the shepherds
trying to kill time!
Being comparatively near Berbera and “civilisation,” the pass being a
kind of high road to Brighton, this Mullah saw a good deal of Europeans,
and spoke a little English. We presented him with a Koran, a _tusba_,
and a couple of tobes--the last of the Mohicans--and so our reception
was exceedingly cordial. The Mullah was an elderly man, but it is
exceedingly hard to guess ages “out there,” and his face was deeply
lined, his eyes were very jaded. When the conversation, engineered by
Clarence as usual, began to flag I cast about in my mind for a suitable
remark, which I placed carefully. He would just wait for me to make
another, and seemed to have no inventive faculty of his own. At last
I said I hoped all his wives were well. The Mullah tersely said he had
none, and relapsed into silence again. This was a set-back that took
some getting over, but I gathered myself together sufficiently to say
I trusted the forlorn condition of things was temporary only, and that
when he had some wives they would keep well. Cecily pulled my sleeve,
and whispered I was getting on very badly. “You try then,” I said
huffily.
She asked him how many cattle he owned. Oh, hundreds. Would we like some
milk?
“I hope he didn’t think I was hinting!” murmured Cecily abashed. But we
did look forward to a good drink of cow’s milk. When it came we could
not manage it, for the milk tasted so horribly. I think the milking
vessels must have been dirty.
In this settlement they made large quantities of _ghee_ for sending
down to Berbera, and the whole atmosphere seemed more business-like
and agricultural than most Somali _karias_. Quite a crop of jowâri
cultivation brightened the plateau ground around, and farming seemed to
be thoroughly understood. Many herds of sheep, watched over by women and
children, whitened the hills. A goat of acumen and intelligence led each
band, and they were not driven from the rear, with the consequent going
in the wrong direction every time that attends the moving of a flock of
sheep with us. The shepherdess walked in front, the tame goat followed,
and the sheep came wandering after. They were exceedingly fat sheep,
and our men revelled in the grease that ensued after the cooking of two
presented to us by our friend the Mullah.
The hot _karif_ wind here blew hurricanes for a couple of days, and
tents would not stand against it. We tried to keep them up, but the
anxiety of the prospect of one’s house about one’s ears kept us awake,
and the next night we had a sort of circle made of all our boxes and
luggage generally, and slept inside the ring with the gale blowing great
guns over our heads. The _karif_ is part of the Haga season, July and
August, and we had met it, only less furiously inclined, on and off
lately. It springs up at night, and you may go to bed with not a breath
stirring to wake to feel the tents straining at its moorings. The sand
blows before the wind in clouds, and the best way to combat it is to
precipitate oneself face downwards until the swirl of grit has passed
for the time. At the height of the Golis the _karif_ is not usually
prevalent, keeping its attentions for the plains. And we were delighted
that each morning as the day advanced the wind of the night spent itself
into a pleasant refreshing breeze.
Just where we pitched our camp was a reserved area for game, so we
descended next morning, minus the hunters, to lower country, down the
remains of elephant trails. They are not so amazing to me as the tracks
of the bison--extinct, or practically extinct anyway--one comes on in
some parts of Montana. I remember one in particular that I thought was
the ancient bed of some great river, so wide and deep was it. And yet
thousands of bison passing over it to drink daily at a lake in the
vicinity had made the wondrous track. But I’m digressing, and that
badly.
A couple of agile wild asses raced along a little pathway cleft in the
side of the ravine above us, the dislodged stones raining about our
ears. Graceful alert creatures, but of course barred to us, and not only
by reason of the red tape that ties them up. I cannot think a wild ass
is an allowable trophy. I should for ever apologise if I had one. So--we
saw them vanish in a cloud of dust. We saw a klipspringer as we turned
a little curving piece of rock. I fired, and missed. Most unfortunately,
as the shot was called through every ravine by every echo.
As we were silently standing gazing across a lovely valley a couple of
wart-hog sows with immense families ran among the aloes. Cecily
dashed after them, and into them, separating the little band. Laughing
heartily, she pursued one agile mite, and almost cornered it. The sow
turned viciously and charged head down. I shouted to the venturesome
Cecily, but she saw the danger as soon as I, and made for an aloe
stronghold. The baby pig with little grunts and squeals ran to its
mother, who gave up the idea of punishing us for our temerity in
waylaying her, and trotted back to her litter, all scuttling away in the
tangle of jungly places. We laughed at the comical sight they presented,
and then began to lunch off a bit of their relation.
The air made us drowsy, and I think we slept awhile. The bark of a
koodoo wakened us, and we started up all alert. Two small does crossed
the ravine lower down, but were gone in the fraction of a second. It was
a stiff climb back, and as I made a detour round a jutting peak of rock
I caught a glimpse of a distant klipspringer. Down I went, and oh, how
I prayed Cecily would keep quiet, and not set a dozen stones a-rolling,
for she had not sighted the prize. I threw up my rifle and took careful
aim. The klipspringer was off. It perched again on a spiky summit. Bang!
sounded to the astonishment of Cecily. The little buck took a header
clean off its halting place, and turning somersaults fell a hundred feet
or so. We slid and ran and fell after it. I made certain its horns would
be broken and useless, but, thank goodness, we found them intact. I
had hit the klipspringer fair and square in the heart, and its rough
olive-coloured coat was hardly marked. The little straight horns of
this trophy measured three and three quarter inches. The females are
hornless.
Then came the difficulty of packing our prize back to camp--our camp
in the skies. First we sought a stout branch, and then tied the hollow
rounded hoofs of the little klipspringer to it. We always went about
with our pockets stuffed with cord and useful things, the sort of things
a woman in peace times would not find useful at all. Then we lifted
together. What a mighty weight for so small a thing! The rests we
had, the slips downhill, the tempers we got into, are they not all
graphically described in my diaries of the day in the following terse
but meaning words: “I shot a klipspringer at the bottom of a ravine.
Cecily and I carried it back to our camp in the Upper Sheik ourselves.”
Simple words, but fragrant with meaning.
Near camp the waiting Clarence met us, and we gladly turned over the
klipspringer to him. It was indeed a charming trophy, and we were
intensely happy at having procured one of this species. Our excursion
had about put the finishing touch to our garments, which were already
on their last legs. We were literally in rags, and had come down to our
last suit. Time had indeed made us slovenly.
If the ascent of the Upper Sheik had been a big matter, what shall we
say about the descent? It was a very serious matter, but Cecily and I
laughed and laughed, and hugely enjoyed ourselves. The proceedings of a
barrow load of stones tipped over the edge would have been graceful
to us. I tried the going down for a short way on my pony, but speedily
resolved that if I must die I would at least do it with some degree of
dignity, and not be hurled into space in company with a wretched, if
well meaning, Somali tat. The camels, one by one, went on before us; it
would have been vastly unpleasant to go before. Westinghouse brakes are
what they wanted, Somali camel men are what they got. Clinging on to the
already overbalanced creatures, backing, pushing, shouting, rarely have
I seen a more amusing sight. The ponies practically tobogganed down, and
the accidents were many. One box full of provisions fell off a heaving
camel, burst open, and all the provisions spread themselves as far and
as widely as ever they possibly could. I scooped up all the coffee
I could find, as it was the last we had. We drank it as “Turkish”
afterwards, grits and all, and thus got it down with more liking.
At the bottom of the pass we called a halt for a much-needed rest,
and looking back one wondered however we had made the journey down
so successfully. The camels seemed none the worse, but one pony, my
erstwhile steed “Sceptre,” had gone very lame. We were now in big timber
country, and for the first time for an age saw water running, and not
stagnant. We took off our boots and stockings, and went in at once, only
sorry that propriety would not allow a total eclipse. We could not leave
that blessed brook; I really cannot dignify it by the name of river.
Camp was formed here, but a zareba was no longer a necessity. All that
day we drowsed away the hours, wandering about among the trees and
chasing butterflies. It was quite an idyllic day.
Next morning we left camp, thoroughly fresh and game for a big tramp.
We took our way up a rocky gorge that led us towards the Marmitime. The
scenery everywhere was still of the most exquisite description, vastly
different to the sun-dried plains we had traversed so short a time ago.
Walking was not easy, and we made a great clatter of stones as we passed
along. Our noise startled a small creature we had not noticed before, so
much the colour of the ground was he. He sprang from rock to rock with
surprising agility, and poised for a moment ere he took off again like
some light-winged bird. We excitedly started in pursuit, and I was
almost certain we should lose him. Cecily vowed she must risk it, and
I did not think it mattered very much anyway. The gazelle seemed to me
lost.
My cousin waited for the creature to rest a second, and then did what I
consider the finest shot of the trip. She brought her quarry down from
a great height, two hundred and ten yards at least, smack, to a little
grassy knoll beneath, stone dead. I patted her on the back. It was a
wonderful and never-to-be-forgotten achievement. We had no end of a
difficulty to reach the place, and arrived, our joy knew no bounds. It
might be said of our trip as of the life of King Charles, that nothing
in all of it so much became it as the ending, for this, our last trophy
of all, proved to be the somewhat rare Pelzeln’s Gazelle. It is not
at all rare in the Marmitime, I believe, but necessitating a special
expedition there to bag one. The gazelle had quite good horns, topping
eight inches. He was fawn in colour, darker on the back, with a black
tail. The females of this species carry horns also.
[Illustration: 0355]
I stayed up in the rocks on guard until Cecily brought Clarence and one
of the hunters to do the carrying of our treasure, Cecily and I having
gone out of that business.
In camp now the greatest activity reigned, the men working so very
willingly, taking no end of pains with the heads and skulls and skins.
And the cook, Cecily’s cook, made us weird hashes and tea till we feared
for our digestions.
CHAPTER XX--END OF THE GREAT SHIKAR
```Approved warriors, and my faithful friends
`````Titus Andronicus=
````Then must I count my gains
`````Richard III=
````And so I take my leave
`````Midsummer Night’s Dream=
|At last Berbera in the distance. At last the one remaining night in
our tent--over. At last the final breakfast in the open--over. Then the
outskirts of the town, and then Berbera itself.
The leader of the Opposition and Ralph met us almost at once, looking
quite respectable and clean. They said they had been waiting right there
for two days for fear we should come unwelcomed. We put up at the
old familiar rest-house in the European Square, and our camels and
_impedimenta_ generally camped in front of us. Our first dinner in
“civilisation” did not please us half as much as the culinary efforts of
Cecily’s _chef_. Roast chicken with flies is not, after all, so
appetising as badly cooked oryx, served up with hunger sauce, and at
least, in the jungle, we escaped that last resource of the average cook
when she can’t think up a pudding--stewed rhubarb. I wonder if there is
a country where the weed can be avoided? Here it was again, a mass of
flies and fermentation, singing away to itself in a little dish.
After dinner we sat outside the bungalow fighting battles o’er again,
and regretting, oh, with such an ache of longing, the jungle and the
wild. That night we hardly slept at all. We missed the camp sounds,
the grunting camels, the sound of the fires being piled, we missed the
open--all! We stretched out longing arms and touched a wall! We paced a
floor that was not ground.
Everything in the world comes to an end. How sad that is sometimes! How
we longed to turn the hands of the clock back, and Time with it!
Next day we joined our camp again, and began to make arrangements for
its disbandment. We had come in at a bad time--camels being a drug in
the market. The leader and Ralph disposed of theirs by public auction,
but there could not be much of a demand for any more at this time of the
year. Our beasts were in a very fair condition, all things considered,
but we had great difficulty in getting rid of them. At last Clarence
produced a dirty old Arab, whose appearance gave one the idea he had no
means whatever, but of course this is not peculiar to Arabs, for some of
our home millionaires are afflicted in the same way. The old gentleman
bargained and bargained until I almost let the creatures go at 30 Rs.
apiece, but Ralph arrived at the crucial moment and put a different
complexion on the matter. He rushed into the discussion with vigour, and
called the offer piracy, robbery, and things of that sort. I never could
have been so personal myself. The Arab did not seem to think any worse
of my kinsman for it, and the camels changed hands at the much improved
price of 35 Rs. apiece.
The ponies were practically given away, and I had no end of a difficulty
to unearth a philanthropist willing to board and lodge “Sceptre.” We
only just got rid of our camels in time! That very evening the sportsman
arrived in Berbera whom we had left cogitating at Aden. His wife was
going stronger than ever, and her temper was, if possible, _worse_. He
had not lost her. What a wasted opportunity! Their caravan had taken a
completely different route to ours, having been to the Boorgha country
and round by the Bun Feroli. Their trophies were very fine and numerous,
and the kindly old shikari showed them to us with great pleasure and
pride. He managed to be a sportsman in spite of Madam, not, I am sure,
by her aid. She was a Woman’s-Righter, and like Sally Brass, a regular
one-er. Regardless of the plain fact that we must all be hopelessly
ignorant of home affairs, she worried our lives out of an evening to
discover our trivial, worthless opinions on all sorts of political
questions. It was very amusing to hear Cecily artfully trying to conceal
her dense ignorance; we listened to them one night after dinner, and
Madam, who probably knew as little of the subject as her victim, desired
to know what Cecily thought of Mr. Chamberlain’s fiscal policy. My
cousin did not enlarge, so that her lack of knowledge was overwhelmingly
apparent. She shook her head solemnly, and said darkly, with grave
emphasis, “What indeed!”
Now, “What, indeed!” can cover a multitude of things if said just as it
should be. Put the accent on both words, and try it next time you are
cornered.
I know Madam regarded us four as a ribald crew, and kept her fickle
smiles only for “the Leader,” whom she desired to propitiate because his
place at home adjoined hers, and as the old shikari meant to put up for
Parliament at the next election, Madam saw a faint chance of securing
a vote. We got a great deal of amusement out of her wiles and
blandishments. One day in between the camel-selling and general
disbandment we had much difficulty to repress our mirth, as we heard the
warrior being tackled something like this.
“Of course, Major,” very suavely, “I can count on _your_ vote?”
“I ought to say ‘Of course’ too. But what precisely are your husband’s
political views?”
“Oh, he hasn’t any. Except on big game shooting.”
“Well, that simplifies matters, anyhow,” said the officer, musingly.
“Could you tell me if he holds with an eight hours’ day?”
“I expect so.” Then added, as an afterthought, “What--er--what kind of a
day is it?”
“Oh,” answered the no-wiser warrior, “an eight hours’ days is--er--an
eight hours’ day.”
“To be sure,” in a tone of great relief. “How _silly_ of me! I should
persuade my husband to have any kind of day his constituents most
preferred.”
“But imagine,” put in Cecily, “if they all wanted different!”
“There are three hundred and sixty-five days in the year, I believe,”
said the offended lady, frigidly.
The old husband was much more likeable, and we got on well with him when
we were allowed a look in. He had a pretty wit, and told stories in an
inimitable manner, though not always of come-in-with-the-fish variety.
Indeed, some of his anecdotes could better have made an _entree_ with
the curry. I dare say so much camp life had roughened him a little.
When Madam waxed sarcastic, and scornfully told him a tale was too far
fetched he would say quite good-humouredly he could never fetch his
stories from far enough, as he was for ever seeing the light of auld
lang syne in some eye. He had that best and most useful of gifts, the
power to say things _apropos_ at just the right moment. Most of us think
them up afterwards when it is too late. Such a power is a gift worth
having from the gods, just as malapropisms come from another quarter.
The traveller’s bungalow affected to put us all up. Ralph said it was
affectation merely, as the place was so crowded out he slept with his
feet through the window!
Anything that was likely to be of the least use to him we gave to
Clarence, to his great joy, and his choice did fall on some quaint
things. An ordinary English axe was his first selection; he passed over
the native ones in lofty scorn. In addition to these few simple gifts we
decided to bestow on him, as a mark of our immense appreciation of the
good work done, our spare 12-bore, in order that he might go out on his
next shikar with every degree of safety. Such a present overwhelmed our
follower by its magnificence, and he was almost too excited to speak, or
express his thanks. At first he did not realise we meant to give it,
and it was very pleasant indeed to watch his face as the wonderful truth
dawned on his mind.
The rest of our men filed past us as we stood ready to pay them by the
side of the tent that had been our home for so long. Every man got his
bonus of money, and a little present besides from the stores, and we
shook hands all round. I think we all felt the same regret at parting.
Absurd as it may sound, the saying “Good-bye” to these rough followers
of ours was a sentimentally sad business.
“What days and nights we’d seen, enjoyed, and passed.” And truly few
travellers had been better served. Clarence was immensely anxious to go
home with us, and become, I don’t quite know what, in our household. He
spoke to me very seriously about it.
“Yu welly good people,” he said; “me go to Englan’ all same you.” But
England and Clarence could never amalgamate, and we had to explain to
him we would all look forward to meeting again in Berbera some day.
Cecily gave my Waterbury to the cook--a cheap way of giving a
present, as I told her; but she had to give him a useful mark of her
appreciation, she said, and her own watch was broken. I said farewell to
this personage more in sorrow than in anger, and he went off winding his
Waterbury as hard as he could go.
Clarence helped us pack the trophies in great cases, a big piece of
work, and one that took us right up to the time of sailing. We
counted our gains, and found that they included rhino, lion,
leopard, harte-beest, dibatag, gerenük, oryx, aoul, Speke’s gazelle,
klipspringer, Pelzeln’s gazelle, wart-hog, hyaena, jackal, wolf,
ostrich, marabou, dik-dik, and one or two other varieties of game and
birds. As for our losses--well, I was assured the Baron was no loss at
all. For on being guided by Clarence to the filthy abode in the native
quarter where the Baron’s family resided, I was given to understand that
his removal was a source of gratification to them all. The amount of
money owing him, and a little over, which I tendered apolegetically
enough, instantly caused the very memory of the ill-fated man to fade
away. Our other follower, who died naturally, with no assistance from
us, directly or indirectly, did not appear to have any belongings.
And so the great shikar ended, and for nearly four months and a half we
had lived in tents, and played at being nomads.
Every one of our men came to the quay to see us off, Clarence carrying
his rifle, the cook still winding his watch. We all shook hands over
again.
“Salaam aleikum, Clarence.”
“Aleikum salaam, Mem-sahibs.”
Salaam.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's Two Dianas in Somaliland, by Agnes Herbert