The crocodile,Floating near the bank,Sleeps in the river.Tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink.The fish,Floating on the water,Sleeps in the river.Tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink.The hippopotamus,Floating in mid-stream,Sleeps in the river.Tinkle, tinkle,...
The crocodile,Floating near the bank,Sleeps in the river.Tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink.The fish,Floating on the water,Sleeps in the river.Tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink.The hippopotamus,Floating in mid-stream,Sleeps in the river.Tinkle, tinkle,...
The music stopped. Africa was deadly still, save for the croaking of a frog.
"Nine-thirty" sat motionless, looking straight before him, out beyond his little fire. Immediately opposite stood a large, black-maned lion. The pair faced each other, a yard or so apart. The only movement was the lion's tail, which switched from side to side. The huge beast looked steadily at "Nine-thirty," who, full of fear, stared back at the lion.
Where life and death are concerned, things happen very suddenly. The lion took one step forward and seized "Nine-thirty" by the knee. The boy reached for his assegai and plunged it into the lion's ribs.
The Sergeant heard the cry and a roar of pain inhis sleep, and woke up to fumble with his beard. Corporal Merton, from an interrupted dream, cried out: "Halt! Who goes there?" Private Hay, if awake, said nothing, whilst his companion in arms muttered: "What's up?" Jacob answered from under his blanket: "It's a lion, master, and he has killed my leader." At any rate, it was certain something serious had happened. A lion, uncomfortably close, was making such a din that the leaves of the trees near by seemed to flutter, and "Nine-thirty" was moaning on the other side of the cattle kraal.
"Stand to arms!" commanded the Sergeant.
All tumbled out of their blankets, rifle in hand, shirttails flapping in the night wind. They were not cowards, neither were they fools. The four listened to the sound of a lion growling and retreating as he growled. The moaning came from one place, so it was evident that Nine-thirty was for the moment safe. Then, hastily lighting a lantern, the policemen picked their way round the cattle kraal to Nine-thirty's little fire. The Sergeant knew something of first aid. He lifted the mauled native carefully and carried him back to the waggon. The boy's knee was in a bad state—the joint was crushed. A "tot" of brandy, a thorough wash of the wound, a bandage, a blanket or two, and a bed of grass near the camp fire made Nine-thirty as comfortable as possible. After making up the fire, all turned in again.
At daylight the Sergeant mustered his men, and thus addressed them:
"We will now go and blot out this accursed lion. Load, and remember no one fires until I give the word. Put on your boots, don't bother about your bags."
The four lined up.
"March!"
They hadn't far to go—barely a couple of hundred yards. The lion raised his head and growled. Nine-thirty's assegai, broken off short, still protruded from the beast's ribs.
"Fire!" commanded the Sergeant. Four shots rang out as one, and the lion's head sank upon his paws. The men reloaded, and approached with caution, but the marauder was dead.
The Sergeant instructed Jacob to skin the beast, and the four returned to camp for breakfast and to think out the problem which had arisen out of the killing of this lion.
All things being equal in sport, and rank apart, and as man to man, to whom belonged the skin? Someone had missed, because there were only three holes in the skin. Someone had made a rotten bad shot, because there was a bullet hole in the lion's rump. Someone had killed the beast outright, because a bullet had passed through the lion's brain. Someone had done for him, because another shot had taken him behind the shoulder.
All claimed the head shot.
Well, Jacob was out of it anyway. So, too, was poor Nine-thirty. Neither had fired a shot.
When I arrived I found Nine-thirty well on the way to recovery, but the policemen still "man to man." A deputation presented me with the skull and asked me to decide about the skin. I declared Nine-thirty the owner by all the rules of hunting; he had drawn first blood, and had stopped the lion.
I suggested, however, that as Nine-thirty did not want the skin, the four who fired at the lion should have a five shilling sweepstake for it, Nine-thirty to have the pound and the winner the skin.
Sergeant Johnson drew the prize.
But Jacob, being a Zulu, collected the lion's fat, melted it into tins, bottles, and small gourds, and sold it for many pounds to his friends when he went home a year later. All Zulus know that lion's fat smeared on the head, face, or beard makes a man brave in battle.
Some missionaries I like very much, they are good fellows; others I am not so sure about; others, again, I admit I cordially dislike. I place the Rev. Mr. Bumpus in the third category. I met him once going down the road from the Zambesi as I was going up. He, lucky beggar, was travelling to rail-head in his ox-waggon, going on leave. I was trekking north in my waggon, having just exhausted my home leave. All his fun was to come; mine was over for a period. I felt, when I met him, like a boy who, having eaten his own plum cake, must now watch another boy devour his.
The Rev. Bumpus had a wife. Poor soul, she was cooped up with him in the waggon, and had been for three weeks. They had come about two hundred miles from their mission station in that time. Think of it, cooped up for three solid weeks with the Rev. Mr. Bumpus. How I pitied her!
What a change there was in the little woman. Three years earlier, I remember, she had gone north with Bumpus, newly married, and with a look in her eyes of a brave soldier of the faith, rosy cheeked, well favoured and plump. And now! What a battle shemust have had! And I'm sure she didn't find a good ally in the man of her choice. She was thin and drawn, had a sad, discouraged eye, and looked more than twice her age.
Almost the first question she asked was: "Oh, have you any tobacco? Any you can spare, I mean?" I produced my pouch, and said I had plenty in my waggon coming on behind.
The Rev. Bumpus slipped off the waggon, took a handful, crammed his pipe, and put the remainder in his alpaca coat pocket. Then he lit up, took a puff or two, and said—nothing! It was she who thanked me, adding:
"Fred has been impossible for the last five days; he's had no tobacco. I didn't pack enough. Perhaps his temper will be better now." And this poor little lady cast a beseeching look at her lord and master.
As for the reverend gentleman, he climbed back into the waggon, sat down with a grunt of contentment, and puffed vigorously at his pipe.
"I'm so glad we've met you," continued the woman. "We've been followed for days by some lions. Last night they took my riding donkey."
"They'll have you next," interjected her gallant spouse with a grin. "They like donkey-meat."
The fellow was a brute. His wife was scared, and even if he couldn't encourage her he needn't have tried to frighten her more. But there he sat, grinning down from his perch in the waggon, and showing his big, yellow teeth. Yes, certainly, I disliked the Rev. Mr. Bumpus. I did my best to reassure the lady, advised the man to put out lighted lanterns at night to keep off the lions, and said good-bye.
I did a short trek that evening, and outspanned early. I couldn't help thinking of the callous man andthe frightened woman. I knew that if the lions came round Bumpus was no man to cope with them, or, for that matter, to take sensible precautions. For myself, I had some poles out, tied lighted lanterns to them, and set them up some distance ahead, behind, and on either side of my waggon. In addition, I had a good fire lit beyond the leading oxen and an extra large one in front of my patrol tent by the side of the waggon.
I had been sitting by the fire for a little while after dinner, smoking, when I was startled by a rifle shot, and then another. I judged by the direction that they must have been fired by the Rev. Bumpus or his driver, and, by the sound, that we were not camped very far apart. I took a couple of boys, my rifle, and a lantern, and hurried along the road to see what had happened. The missionary's waggon was further away than I expected. When I got there the Rev. Bumpus was on the roof of the waggon, on the top of the tent, in his nightshirt. I hadn't seen a nightshirt on a man for years. His wife was inside the waggon. The driver—it was he who had fired the shots—was, with his leader, crouching under the waggon. The oxen were very restless.
It was quite dark, and there would be no moon all night. The missionary's fire had died down, and I couldn't see a yard beyond the ring of light shed by the lantern in my hand. My first concern, therefore, was to shake the unburnt logs together and get the fire going again. Then, with my lantern in one hand and my rifle in the other, I walked along the line of oxen, talking to them as I went, with the object of settling them down. I counted the cattle as I passed and found the span intact.
Then, under my direction, my boys collected as much wood as we could find handy, and lightedanother fire, ahead of the oxen. Then I went back to the waggon to question the missionary.
Had he seen a lion?
"Yes, a large one."
"Where?"
"Close to the leading oxen."
Had she seen any?
"No, nothing," said his wife.
Had the driver seen the lion?
"Ja, baas, two."
At that moment I nearly jumped out of my skin. The driver, from under the waggon, fired again; his bullet must have missed my legs by inches only. I had to use un-Sunday School language before I could make the Rev. Bumpus stop his din from the top of the waggon; he was terrified, and showed it without shame or reserve. I took the rifle from the driver. Lions at night are bad enough, but the additional risk of a scared native armed with a Martini is a little too much.
"What the devil did you let fly for?"
"At the lion, baas."
"Where?"
"Over there, baas."
"Over there," indeed, a few yards from the waggon, it was as black as ink, but I argued, natives have good eyesight, and a lion's eyes have a way of reflecting the light of a distant fire. He might have seen a lion.
Well, there was nothing for it, more fires must be built.
The missionary had only one lantern, and that I lighted. It was too dark to find a pole, so I dug a hole in the sandy soil, planted the waggon whip in it, and slung the lantern to the whip-stick.
Then began a night of toil and anxiety; I have no wish to live through such a night again. My boys were frightened now. Frightened does not describe the condition of the Rev. Mr. Bumpus. There he was, a weird figure, perched on the top of the waggon-tent, ghostly in his white nightshirt, chattering with alarm. Mrs. Bumpus sat, fully dressed, inside the waggon, quite still and silent. The missionary's driver, leader, and my boys stood huddled round the largest fire at the tail end of the waggon, their eyes looking unusually large and white as they peered into the thick darkness.
"There he is, baas!"
"Where?"
"There!"
"Where's there, you fool?"
"Listen!"
I listened, and sure enough I heard the shush, shush of something moving in the dead leaves and dry grass a little distance away. The oxen nearest the waggon showed signs of nervousness. I would have given much for a dog that night. The movement stopped. We all listened. The Rev. Bumpus began to mumble something from his perch aloft.
"For goodness sake shut up! How can I hear anything while you're making all that noise!"
He stopped.
"There he is, baas!"
"Where?"
"There!"
I listened, but could hear nothing. I listened for quite a long time. We all listened—we could hear nothing. The nearest ox lay down with a grunt, which meant that he, at any rate, was not much alarmed.
The Rev. Bumpus asked whether I thought he couldcome down, as on the top of the waggon-tent it was very cold. I was just about to say he could when again that shush, shush! I heard it myself distinctly this time. At once the chorus again of "There he is," in as many languages as there were natives huddled round me.
I decided that we must do something, make a sortie and get more wood; the fires had burnt low.
Presently we had four fires blazing away, the one in front of the leading oxen, one on either side of the waggon, and one at the tail-end of it. My boys' courage rose as the circle of light grew. They dashed here and there—strictly within the circle of light formed by the fires—collecting dry wood. After a while you could have roasted the proverbial ox at any one of the fires.
While we were busy the Rev. Bumpus had crept down from his place of vantage and had gone to bed. His wife, the better man of the two, made us some strong coffee. The missionary's driver and leader joined in the scramble for wood.
The lion had evidently drawn off, so we had some coffee and stood warming ourselves by the fire.
"There he is, baas!"
I grabbed my rifle. "Where?"
"There, I can hear him now."
"Listen! Silence, all of you!"
Shush, shush; shush, shush.
From over there! No, from there! Where the devil is he?
And this sort of thing went on the whole night through. Quiet for a while. Fires die down. Shush, shush; shush, shush. Hurried collection of wood. Fires blaze up. Silence. The shush, shush justbeyond the limit of light. "There, he is, baas!" "Where?" "There!" and so on.
Then dawn. How slowly it came! Intense desire to murder that lion or lions. A little lighter now.
I set out, with the natives following, to look for the spoor.
Shush, shush; I heard it quite plainly. Good heavens! where is that lion? Broad daylight now. Is the thing a ghost?
No. There it is—a scrubby, little, scaly anteater! Still grubbing in the fallen leaves. Shush, shush; shush, shush.
We stood looking at it, tired-eyed and weary.
"Why don't you kill the wretched rat?"
It was the Rev. Mr. Bumpus who spoke.
Talking of rats, I could have killed that man there and then.
When I got back to my own waggon I found lion spoor on the sandy road. It was not difficult to read from their tracks—there were three lions—that they had followed the missionary's waggon until they came to a turn in the road and saw my lanterns. From that point the spoor led down to the river bed, across it, and into the thick bush on the other side. They hadn't come near the waggons.
To-day you may book your passage with Cook's, in Ludgate Circus, to the Victoria Falls and back, and travel in comfort all the way. In 1897 it was different. There was no road to the Victoria Falls then, let alone a railway. I won't bother you with an account of our journey out by waggon as far as Panda-Ma-Tenga, or of how we rode across country from the edge of the Kalahari Desert to the Falls, guided by the column of spray arising from them, or, where the land dipped, by a sense of direction.
At length we got there, or, more correctly, within a hundred yards of the tumbling waters. Their roar was deafening. It was a wonderful sound and a more wonderful sight. Imagine the hum of London traffic increased ten thousand fold. Imagine a forest of palm, fern, black-trunked trees, all within a hothouse of immense proportions, and a tepid, tropical rain soaking you to the skin. We cut through the distance which separated us from the lip of the Falls. Thick, tough creeper and undergrowth, maidenhair fern waist high; it seemed a sin to trample it underfoot. From time to time up to the thigh in watery mud when, unluckily, one stepped in the pit-like spoor of ahippopotamus which had passed in the night. Monkeys chattering from overhead. I think I caught sight of a buffalo.
What a difference to-day! You might see a monkey in the trees now and then, but a fire has since passed through that jungle at the end of a dry season, and a century will not repair the damage. Moreover, there are gravel paths leading from the new hotel to every "view" now, but we, who saw the Victoria Falls twenty-four years ago, have something to remember and to brag about.
We spent half a day looking and looking and looking. We were drenched by the spray, dried by the sun, deafened by the roar of the waters, and struck dumb by the beauty of it all.
At about one o'clock we felt hungry, and went in search of our pack-horses. We had off-saddled outside the thicket and turned our beasts loose. We found our saddles easily enough, and the horses, too, for that matter; the grass was so luscious and plentiful that no horse would desire to stray far after several weeks in the dry Kalahari. We had lunch and a little rest, and then set out again to do more exploring. We hadn't gone far before we came upon the track of a waggon. Robinson Crusoe, when he found the footprint of the man Friday, could not have been more amazed than we.
So far as we knew, no other expedition had come to the Falls ahead of us. Who, then, was the intruder?
We followed the track, and presently, in a small clearing, we saw a waggon. Whoever he was, this traveller deserved full credit for what he had done. We had ridden to the Falls, and were proud of it, but here was a man who had got a waggon through. Stout fellow. And there, seated on a skin near his oxen,was the man. He had a matted beard, and didn't look too clean. Under one arm he hugged a huge calabash, from which he was eating honey with a stick. The honey was old and granulated. There were many flies in it, too, evidence that the neck of the calabash had been left uncovered at times. He didn't move when he saw us, but, holding out his stick, said: "Have some."
We told him we had just fed, but thanked him all the same.
"Sit down," said he, "sit on this skin," but he made no room for us. "I shot it yesterday at the Falls. This is the cub; the lioness went off."
"How long have you been here?"
"A couple of days."
"How did you get through?"
"Cut my way."
"Lose any cattle in the thirst country?"
"Didn't come that way; took a bee line from Bulawayo."
This was a good performance indeed. All the old hands had said it couldn't be done.
"What did you come for?"
"What did you?"
The man who asked the question first was travelling north to take over the administration of a tract of country as big as France. He explained his business.
"Oh, so you're the magistrate, are you?"
"Yes, that's about it. And you?"
"I'm a captain in the Salvation Army down south, but I've brought a fellow up to prospect for mineral on the other side of the Zambesi. He crossed yesterday, and moved up country on foot this morning."
I looked at this queer fellow with interest. His cap of calling lay on the ground beside him. Throughoutthe conversation he went on eating the honey. The Zambesi in those days was about the last place I should have expected to find a Salvation Army man. Looking round I caught sight of the familiar red jersey with the yellow letters. It was hanging on a bush, evidently drying. The captain had followed my gaze, and volunteered: "Had a bit of a washing day, first on this trip." From the look of him I concluded that his own turn was yet to come.
"Well, tell us about the lion cub."
I think he told the truth. I can't, of course, vouch for it, but he was sitting on the skin of a newly-killed cub. Before we left the Falls the vultures told us where to find the lioness. But this is his story:
"I was walking along in the rain-forest with my rifle, looking for a pig or a palla or anything else eatable. I hadn't gone far when I nearly fell over this cub. He snarled at me, so I shot him. While he lay kicking on his back up comes his mother, so I reloaded my old Martini and gave her one for herself. Not being a first-class shot, I didn't do for her right off. She looked so angry and seemed to be coming on that I stepped back a pace or two, but keeping my eye on her. I tried to reload, but the empty cartridge case jammed. I broke off a stick from a handy bush and plugged it down the muzzle. I must have pushed too hard, for the stick broke off short."
The captain stopped, got up, and fetched his rifle from the wagon. The stick was still in the barrel, evidently stuck fast in the cartridge, which, in its turn, was firmly fixed in the breech. We had a look at the rifle and then at the captain. He simply said: "Can either of you gentlemen fix this up for me?" We both said we could, and both asked: "But what about the lioness?"
"Oh, the lioness. Why, there she was and there I was. She with a very ugly look, and growling, and I with my rifle put out of action. I felt it was time to do something, so I backed out of the bush singing a hymn in a loud voice."
The days have gone by when the Paramount Chiefs of the Barotse embarked annually upon a large-scale Lechwe drive. I believe the last big hunt took place in 1899. I, at any rate, have heard of no such happening since.
It is just as well that these drives have come to an end. The African natives' idea of sport does not altogether tally with that of the white man; no sportsman likes to see animals slaughtereden masse.
In those days the Lechwe antelope were strictly preserved for the pleasure of the Paramount Chief and his entourage. No native was permitted to disturb them in their natural haunts—the wide, open plains—and no man could kill one under pain of heavy penalty. The only exception to this rule was when a few head strayed into the vicinity of Lealni, the principal native village of the Barotse valley. Then the people were allowed to hunt them with dogs, but not to shoot them.
The time chosen for these drives was after the rains had ceased to fall, but while the Zambesi had still more water to carry off than its banks could contain.The overflow was such that for a space the Barotse Valley became a vast lake, varying in depth from a few inches to a dozen feet.
The same may be said with equal truth of the Luena river, an important tributary which, flowing from the East, made its junction with the Zambesi not far from Lealni. It was in the Luena basin that the drives took place.
For two months before the time of hunting preparations for the drive began. Those long, heavy casting assegais, peculiar, I believe, to that part of Africa, were cleaned and sharpened. Narrow hunting canoes were collected, repaired and caulked. Four foot long pikes, sharpened at one end—which was hardened by burning—with a stout blade fixed in the other, were prepared in great numbers by the Batotela, a slave tribe cunning in the manufacture of iron. The blades of these pikes were short and flat and had the rounded point of an oyster-knife.
I was invited by the Chief to be present at the drive in 1899, and I went.
It took two days to reach the hunting ground. We travelled in shallow-draught, dug-out canoes. The first night we slept in elaborate grass shelters prepared for us beforehand.
Next morning we resumed our journey at daylight. The Chief went first in a very small and narrow canoe. He was accompanied by one man only. They stood up in the canoe and punted with long, red-wood poles. All European clothes had been discarded by the natives. The Chief wore a woollen nightcap and a long, white shirt. Round his waist, but under his shirt, he had a highly-coloured, fringed tablecloth. His legs and feet were bare; so, too, were his arms to the elbow.
My canoe started immediately after that of the Chief, but I did not retain that position long. It was more comfortable and, therefore, much heavier and slower. It carried a crew of seven.
I suppose there must have been several thousand canoe loads of men. Two of the Chief's wives accompanied the party. All etiquette was abandoned. It became a race to follow the Chief, and although the waterway was several miles wide, collisions were frequent. Everyone was good-humoured, including one of the Chief's wives, whose canoe was capsized in the scurry. She was rescued amid much laughter and joking, in which she joined.
En routewe passed many canoes loaded down to the gunwale with pikes. To these everyone gave a wide berth for fear of swamping them, for the pikes were necessary to the sport.
In the afternoon of the second day we arrived at the spot selected, or, to be more precise, at a large camping ground within easy reach of it.
Here we found even more elaborate grass huts ready for us. The Chief gave me a hut quite near to his own, a compliment which I did not appreciate at its intended value, because his band played and women sang throughout the night and robbed me of all sleep.
The moment we arrived the Chief started off in his fast canoe to inspect the ground over which the Lechwe were to be driven next day. On his return he told me that the place had been well chosen and that the country was alive with Lechwe. He also said he had found a high ant-hill for me to stand upon and watch the drive.
At daylight we set out again and reached my ant-hill in about an hour. The Chief took me to the top ofit, pointed out the direction from which the antelope would come, and explained the plans for the day's sport.
Looking through my field-glasses I saw two faint lines which, beginning more than a mile away in the open plain, converged, forming a funnel. The narrow end of the funnel terminated within a quarter of a mile from my ant-heap and in a line with it.
The faint lines were really thin strips of dry palmleaf tape, which shone white in the bright sunlight. Every few yards a bight was taken round a bunch of tall, growing grass, which lent support to it and gave the impression that a one-strand fence or a barrier of some sort had been erected.
The Chief referred to the two thin lines as walls, and assured me that the antelope, if properly driven, would not break through them.
He then drew my attention to the apparent opening at the narrow end of the funnel, and asked me if I saw anything to prevent the Lechwe from escaping in that direction.
I said I could see no bar. He replied that the Lechwe couldn't either, so, when pressed, would dash for the opening.
"It is then that the sport will begin," he added.
At this I looked more carefully and saw innumerable pikes had been driven into the ground with their iron points sloping forward towards the wire end of the funnel. The grass had been carefully rearranged.
This, then, was the general plan: to drive the Lechwe into the funnel, down it, and on to the pikes at the narrow end.
In reply to my questions, he said that many thousands of beaters, drawn from the slave tribes, had been wading through the swamps for two dayscollecting small herds of antelope and driving them slowly forward towards the mouth of the funnel.
He drew a diagram with his stick on the side of the ant-heap to show how the beaters were disposed. He had adopted the well-known African method of envelopment—the crescent, with the horns well forward. The men who formed the horns had already reached the extremities of the funnel and were passing slowly down outside the line. The antelope, he told me, were contained in the arc of men coming forward.
As yet I could see no antelope, nor could I see the men who formed the arc; they were still too far away.
In the meantime, all the men who had come in small hunting canoes had taken their places outside, but close to, the two thin lines or walls. The moment they reached their stations they sat down and were lost to view in the long grass. The Chief explained that these men remained hidden until the Lechwe had passed them, when their business was to stand up and frighten the antelope forward with shouts and gesticulations. Should any Lechwe attempt to break through the sides of the funnel, the canoemen had to drive them back or assegai them.
I now knew what to expect.
The Chief presently left me, as he, too, had to take up his station. He begged me to keep myself hidden, as a premature exposure might easily spoil the entire drive.
I lay flat on the ant-heap, looking through a small gap which I made in the tall grass which crowned it. I could see admirably, but could not be seen.
It was a long time before I could discern any movement, even at the mouth of the funnel. I could hear the cries of the beaters as they approached, faintly at first, then a hum, then a roar.
Presently I saw a single reed-buck ram pacing very slowly towards the concealed assegais. From time to time he stopped, stamped, sniffed and whistled, scenting danger. What became of him, I don't know. I lost sight of him.
Looking through my glasses towards the entrance of the funnel again, I saw a sight which made me gasp. Although the most distant beaters had not yet appeared, a huge herd of Lechwe seemed literally to block the funnel and were trotting steadily down it. Half way they stopped. A fine ram turned and walked towards the left-hand wall. A man stood up and the antelope turned in the direction of the opposite wall; he went at a trot again and the immense herd followed him. When within twenty yards of the palmleaf tape, some dozen men stood up. All the antelope but the ram stopped. He, fine fellow that he was, made a bold bid for liberty. He dashed on, gathered himself together, and cleared the fence. One of the men in a canoe made a movement. It was too far off to see anything clearly, but as the Lechwe landed in a heap, I realised that he had been transfixed in mid-air by one of those heavy hunting assegais.
The herd was not leaderless for long. Another ram forged ahead and trotted straight towards the narrow end of the funnel. Immediately every man sat down. It was clear that these hunters had been very well drilled.
After moving rapidly for a hundred yards the Lechwe came to a halt. They were not as yet frightened, but highly suspicious.
First, they turned at a walk towards the right-hand wall: a man stood up. They moved across to the left: the first man sat down and his opposite number stood up. The antelope broke into a trot. After headingto the right again for a little way, some hundreds broke back, and this, I think, is where the mistake was made, for, instead of leaving them to the beaters, who were approaching, driving many more herds of Lechwe before them, man after man stood up, shouting and waving their arms wildly.
This had the effect of breaking up the whole of the antelope formation. They dashed here and there, thoroughly frightened; some broke through the wall, some cleared it, some dashed right back, and others came on towards the trap.
I watched these last. There were several hundred of them. They came along at a very fast trot, the rams with their heads forward, noses up, and horns lying along their backs. A ram led. He struck one of the hidden pikes full with his chest and gave a mighty leap into the air, bleeding from a terrible wound in the brisket. He landed on the point of another pike and bounded up from it, his entrails dragging behind him. Much weakened, he leaped and leaped again until, completely disembowelled, he fell and lay still.
There was no escape, the pikes were set so closely together: not a foot apart. They reached right across the gap in the funnel and to the depth of forty or fifty yards. I do not think a single one of this part of the large herd escaped. For the space of two minutes they were dashing past me and on to the hidden pikes. Every one was disembowelled before it fell dead—rams, ewes, and young alike. It was a disgusting sight.
The natives were in a frenzy of excitement. No doubt their one idea was to drive the Lechwe to the trap and in that they succeeded; but they also drove a considerable part of the herd back upon the beaters,who were pressing other herds before them. The confusion was complete. Lechwe were dashing in all directions. Men were shouting and hurling their assegais. A deafening roar rose from the beaters, now close in. From time to time a score or so Lechwe dashed upon the pikes and added to the slaughter.
I saw a Setutunga approach the pikes leisurely out of the confusion. He lifted his feet high at every step, a habit bred of life in the papyrus swamps. A native appeared from nowhere in particular and running him down killed him with a club.
The drive was over.
That evening when I met the Chief he was still furious. Someone had blundered and most of the Lechwe had escaped. Moreover, a man in a small canoe, hurling his heavy assegai at a Lechwe, had missed the beast and killed his brother. The Chief's own cook and several of his companions had been mauled out in the plain by a leopard. No, the drive had not been a success by any means.
I wondered what the bag would have been if all had gone well with the Chief's plans. I had personally counted three hundred mutilated carcasses, but, feeling sick, had given up the tally and returned to camp.
How hot it was! September, 1897. I had not shot my first lion then, and many, many months were to pass before my luck came. Dame Fortune doesn't often condescend to glance my way. She smiled broadly once when, with three tickets, I won first, second, and third prize in a sweep on the Grand National; but then I have never drawn a prize in a sweep since.
However, to return to September, 1897. Yes, by Jingo, it was hot. Not a breath of air; not a leaf on any tree. The rains were almost due, but not a shower had fallen. The only shade was in the shadow of the wagon.
But it was not the blazing sun alone with which we had to contend. There thrives in the Kalahari Desert a pestiferous little winged insect called the Mopani bee, named after the hardwood tree in which it sets its hive. It would seem that this creature must have moisture, moisture of any kind—it isn't at all particular. And to think that I used to eat the stuff they call Mopani honey until, one day, I saw a bunch of them lapping up the moisture from a perspiring native runner. Ugh!
These bees will congregate in dozens at the cornersof your eyes, try to burrow into them and then collect the tears which the discomfort of their burrowing produces. They will crowd at the corners of your mouth; when you open it to blow the little plagues away, they rush in. Thank Heaven, the Mopani bee doesn't sting.
We were struggling up to the Zambesi from Bulawayo. Our waggons were overloaded, for the Kalahari had taken heavy toll of our cattle and our spans were therefore many oxen short.
We had reached and covered the first ten miles of the thirty-five which separate Makululumi from Kasibi. All those who knew the old Hunter's road will remember that stretch. The first ten miles are not bad going, but the next seven are the heaviest and loosest sand that oxen were ever asked to drag a waggon through.
Between Makululumi and Kasibi there is no water, so the Major who commanded our little party thought it wise to send the oxen back from the ten-mile point to have the best part of a couple of days' rest at Makululumi before calling upon them to tackle the next stage of the journey.
During the afternoon of the second day, by following my chief's example, I got the better of those bees. It is true I was slowly suffocating, but that was better than being tormented. I was lying on my back under the waggon, with my head covered with a blanket, perspiring immoderately. At least three more hours of this before the cattle returned and we resumed our journey.
Presently I heard a conversation going on in Dutch between the Major and one of his boys. I looked out and saw one of the drivers who should have been with the cattle.
"What are you doing here?" the Major asked.
"Lions, baas."
"Where? How many? When?"
"Last night at Makululumi. Yes, many of them, baas."
"Any cattle dead?"
"Four, baas."
"Tell me about it."
The driver told his story. It appeared that the night before, as soon as it was dark, the boys had collected the cattle together and had driven them up to the camp fires. The oxen stood about for a little while and then settled down. Seeing this, the boys had turned in. When the moon set, the cattle moved off to the water holes again to drink and graze.
Presently there was a great commotion at the water, oxen bellowing and stampeding. The boys got up and ran down with lights and a rifle. There they found three of the oxen lying dead within a hundred yards of each other, and a fourth, also dead, some little distance on. Each ox had his neck broken, but was otherwise unmarked. One of the boys thought he heard a lion in the grass, so fired his rifle off.
Collecting the cattle again, they drove them up to the camp fires and kept a strict watch for the remainder of the night.
At daylight they went back to the scene of the killing, and found that the lions had returned to the carcasses and made a heavy meal off two of them, the third was half eaten, the fourth untouched.
This was indeed a disaster; we simply couldn't spare these four oxen.
"Where are the cattle now?"
"At the water holes with the other boys."
"What did you tell the other boys to do?"
"Let the cattle graze until sundown, then water them and bring them along."
"Good. Now let's get busy."
During this conversation I had got out from under the waggon and was now listening.
"What are you going to do?" I asked.
"Go back and blot out some of those lions."
"May I come, too?"
"Have you ever shot a lion?"
"No."
"Have you ever seen one?"
"Not outside the Zoo, but I should like to."
"Well, you may come on one condition."
"What's that?"
"Don't shoot unless and until I tell you to."
I promised. Here was adventure indeed!
The Major took an axe and a length of cord. He handed me a billy-can, two cups and some coffee. He selected a double .303 from his battery. I took the only rifle I possessed, namely, a single Martini Metford.
Without more ado we set off to cover the ten miles back to Makululumi. There was no path, of course, merely the overgrown waggon track through the forest. The traffic on that road was insufficient to cope with the suckers which had sprung up round the stump of every tree felled in the cutting of this so-called road. The men who originally made the road had not troubled to stump it. The going was tiresome, and, lightly loaded as I was, I soon found the little I had to carry an increasing burden to me.
About a mile from our destination we met the rest of our natives driving the cattle along. We stopped for a few minutes to question them. They had kept the vultures off the fourth ox, which was still intact,but the birds had eaten up the other three almost entirely. A bushman had arrived shortly before they came away, attracted by the circling vultures. They made him stand guard over the yet untouched ox in case we came back for the lion.
All this was satisfactory, so, telling the boys to inspan the waggons when they reached them, and make as long a trek as they could through the heavy sand, we pushed on.
We had no difficulty in finding the spot where the oxen had been killed. Hundreds of vultures, gorged with meat, sat on the upper branches of a clump of trees. A little further on an unusually tall bushman stood up as we approached.
The Major examined the lie of the land with an experienced eye, and quickly made his plans.
The Makululumi water holes are really a series of pools strung out along the otherwise dry bed of a small river. Of three of the slaughtered oxen little remained but the bones and hide; they had been killed in the bed of the river. The fourth lay on the far bank, where the river made a very sharp hairpin bend and narrowed to not more than a dozen feet.
The Major selected a point as near as possible to the bank and immediately opposite the dead ox. He didn't waste much time in explanation, but, taking the axe, told me to follow him. The sun was just beginning to set. He hurried to the nearest clump of small trees and felled them rapidly, trimming off the branches and cutting them into poles about six feet long.
My part of the work was to carry the poles to the hairpin bend. Twenty in all were cut, varying in thickness from two to five inches in diameter. Then we built our moral support, for it was no more. I heldthe tops of three poles while the Major tied them together with the piece of cord which he had brought from the waggon. Then, standing them on end, he spread them to form a tripod. This he reinforced with additional poles, which he made fast with strips of bark. The finished shelter looked like a skeleton bell-tent. It had neither strength nor stability, for we had no time to sink the ends of the poles in the sun-baked ground.
By that time the sun had set, and the bushman, who had been watching us silently all this time, said something in that strange clicking language of his and hurried off, presumably to a place of safety.
The Major thought a meal would do us good, and, going back along the river until we came to a dry place where the banks were high, he lit a fire. At the sight of a blaze I realised that I was cold. We did not think of our coats in the heat of the midday sun. However, there was nothing for it but to see the matter through.
I felt quite comfortable after some bully-beef and bread, washed down with two or three cups of hot coffee.
At eight o'clock we returned to our fort as quietly as possible, surprising on the way a hyena in the act of dragging off the hide of one of the oxen. We had to crawl very carefully into our shelter for fear of disturbing a pole and bringing the whole thing down about our ears.
Once inside, I had ample time for reflection. We sat within three yards of the bank of the river, which was but four yards wide at this point. A yard from the opposite bank lay the dead ox; beyond the ox, for about a hundred yards, the grass had been burntshort; beyond that again was long grass and thick bush.
The moon, which was three-quarter full, would not set for another five hours; everything was almost as clear as daylight between the river and the thick bush; we could see up and down the river bed. The ox, much distended by a day's exposure to the blazing African sun, was too near to be pleasant, and, being on a level with us, blotted out much of the landscape on the other side of the river. We could distinctly hear the hyenas, jackals, and the lesser scavengers quarrelling over the scraps of bone, hide, and offal left by the lions and the vultures.
We sat facing the ox. The Major thought that if the lions came at all it would be from the thick bush ahead, for immediately behind us was open country for a considerable distance.
Strangely enough, I felt extremely sleepy. We held a short whispered consultation, and it was agreed that I should sleep while I could. The Major promised to wake me if things became interesting. He wasn't sleepy.
I lay down with my rifle by my side, my head touching one pole and my feet another. I slept almost immediately, in spite of the cold and the hardness of the ground. Not only was the air at night cold by contrast with the hot day, but the evaporation from the water holes lowered the temperature.
The sound of my companion's rifle woke me. Sitting up, I saw a lion in the air, descending upon us. The Major fired again, and the lion fell into the water-course, literally at our feet. I could see his rump and tail quite plainly. His rage was terrific as he tried to reach us. His bellowing must have beenheard for miles around, and doubtless many a bushman and many a beast quaked at the sound of it.
I remember shouting at the top of my voice: "I can see his rump. Shall I shoot?"
The reply, I must admit, disconcerted me: "Rump's the wrong end, but if he shows his head shoot it off."
I watched the struggling beast so intently that I did not see that a second lion had approached. He made his presence known to me by a roar which sounded loud and clear above the thunder of his wounded fellow. He was standing broadside on to us, just behind the ox. The Major fired and the lion sprang forward. The noise was deafening. A chorus of two wounded lions is something not often heard.
I now watched the second lion. He dashed off towards the bush, changed his mind and charged us. He came in great leaps, roaring as he came, then thought better of it, for he stopped sharply, throwing up clouds of dust as he did so, and pulled up almost on the ox. All I could see was his head, and that very indistinctly because of the dust which now enveloped both the lion and the dead ox.
Again a steadying warning: "Don't shoot until you can see more of him than that."
As the Major spoke the lion veered off and trotted back towards the bush, grunting savagely as he went.
"Here he comes again!" And so he did, bounding along as before and bellowing so that I wondered whether our home of poles could stand the vibration of sound.
Again the lion hesitated, again he sheered off, this time entering the bush. We heard him crashing through it until there was silence once more, for the first lion had now ceased to show any signs of life.
I must admit to feeling decidedly uncomfortable then. My heart thumped like a sledge hammer. I longed to get out and stretch my legs. A great deal of action had been compressed into a short space of time, probably not more than ten minutes. To the Major's suggestion that we should have a look at the dead fellow I responded with alacrity—too much alacrity—my foot catching in one of the poles, the whole structure came crashing down upon his head.
After extricating himself he climbed down into the river bed and stood looking at the lion. I followed him.
I don't know why I did it—some sudden impulse for which I cannot account—but I stepped forward and raising the lion's head in my two hands, looked into his eyes.
I certainly heard the Major talking, and I distinctly heard what he said.
"What the devil are you doing, you damned young fool? Drop that head and come away. How do you know he's dead?"
I took no notice. I couldn't. I was terrified, hypnotised. I could do nothing but stare and stare.
No doubt the lion was dead, but the light in his eyes was not. It was dying, not dead. It was a blazing, vivid, blinding light—as it were, the light of an untamed spirit reluctantly taking leave of a mighty body.
When at length I let that rugged head fall, the light had faded; I stood shivering, feeling little and mean, as one who had looked upon something not meant for him to see.