My hour is almost come
Hamlet
A lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing, for there is not
a more fearful wild fowl than your lion living
Midsummer Night’s Dream
Very shortly after this we came to a Somali karia, or encampment. Its inhabitants were a nomadic crowd, and very friendly, rather too much so, and I had to order Clarence to set a guard over all our things.
Their own tents were poor, made of camel mats that had seen better days. The Somali women were immensely taken with our fair hair, and still more with our hair-pins. Contrary to the accepted custom of lady travellers, we did not suffer the discomfort of wearing our hair in a plait down our backs. We “did” our hair—mysterious rite—as usual. By the time I had finished my call at the camp my golden hair was hanging down my back. I had given every single hair-pin to the Somali ladies, who received them with as much delight as we should a diamond tiara.
Married women in Somaliland wear their hair encased in a bag arrangement. Girls plait theirs. The little ones’ heads are shaven, and so, apparently, were the scalps of the very old men. Clarence’s hair was about two inches long when we started, and he had a way of cleaning it reminiscent of a bird taking a sand bath. He rubbed his head with wet ashes, which speedily dried in the sun, and allowed him to shake the dust out—a nettoyage à sec process, and very effective. As a rule he wore no head-covering in the hottest sun.
Even the heads of the Somali babies are exposed in all their baldness. I suppose God tempers the rays to the shorn lambs.
The huts are made of a frame of bent poles, over which camel mats and odds and ends in the way of blankets are thrown. The nomadic tribes in their treks follow the grass, and occupy the same zarebas year after year. These they make of thick thorn brushwood, immensely high, two circles, one inside the other. Between the two fences the cattle are penned sometimes, but at night the middle encampment receives most of them, and fires are lighted. All the work of erecting the huts and tending the animals is done by women, and very often the oldest women and the smallest of the children have this office thrust upon them.
You can imagine that a Somali baria is rather of the nature of Barnum’s, minus the auctioneering and the shouting and bustle—countless people, ground all ploughed with the sturm und drang of the restless feet, and smell—-!
It is a wonderful thing that human beings can thrive in the condition of dirt and squalor in which these wandering Somalis live. They do, and some of them are very fine-looking men indeed.
The majority of the tribes are nomadic. There are some settled, some traders pure and simple, and some outcaste people, of whom the Midgans seem the most romantic—probably because he still uses bow and arrow, lives a hand to mouth existence, calls no karia home, and makes his bed in the open.
Most Somalis wear the long tobe in various degrees of cleanliness. The real dandy affects a garment of dazzling whiteness. Less particular people carry on until the tobe is filthy. I imagine the cloth hails from Manchester. It is cotton sheeting, several feet in length, and put on according to the taste and fancy, artistic, original, or otherwise, of the wearer. It is a graceful costume, Cæsar-like and imposing. At night it is not removed, and seen by the light of the fire each sleeping Somali looks like nothing so much as some great cocoon.
A praying carpet is considered an indispensable part of the Somali equipment. It isn’t really a carpet at all, being nothing in the wide world but a piece of tanned hide or skin. Some of our men spent a good deal of time on the mat, prostrating themselves at the most untoward moments. Others again did not seem to have got religion, and never called the thing into use at all. But to every one of them Allah was a something impossible to get along without entirely. If there had been no Allah or Kismet to put all the blame on to when everything went wrong, we should have been in an awkward place indeed.
It was at this encampment I purchased two more ponies, not beautiful to look at but beggars to go.
We tried them first, fearing to be done again, and they seemed willing little fellows, and full of life. Most of the tribes breed ponies on a small or large scale, and as they are never groomed or tidied up at all they cannot help a somewhat unkempt appearance. We bought a few sheep for food, and were presented with a dirty harn full of camels’ milk, horrid tasting stuff, which we handed over to the men, and so didn’t desert our “Nestlé” for it. Going among the squalid tents in the karia we found a woman in a sad state of collapse, although nobody seemed to mind it save ourselves. More of the Kismet business. She had a wee baby, a few hours old, lying on the herio beside her. The whole scene was primitive and pathetic to a degree. I am glad to say we improved matters considerably.
Although water was very scarce, we spared enough from our store to tub the quaint little baby, going first back to our tents to procure soap and a few other things. We dressed the mite in a white vest, in which it was completely lost, to the interest and astonishment of a jury of matrons who stood around us, ever and again feeling some part of our clothing, tying and untying our boot laces, and even going the length of putting inquisitive hands into our pockets. For the mother of His Majesty the Baby we opened our first bottle of emergency champagne. A right thinking Somali is dead against strong drink of any kind, spirits being entirely taboo, so we thought it safer and more diplomatic to refer to the champagne as medicine. The bang it opened with astonished the listless crowds, and the effect as the good wine did its work astonished them still more.
We presented the headman with a tobe, and then took ourselves back to camp, accompanied by a rabble of Somalis who infested our zareba until we struck tents that evening. I had as much of a bath as it was possible to get in a tea-cupful of water. But a visit to a Somali encampment makes you feel a trifle dirty.
Our water supply was on the verge of becoming a worry, so we had to make a detour towards a place where rain was reported to have fallen and the pools could be counted on. Clarence knew all this part of the country well, and was a most reliable guide as well as everything else. His duties were multitudinous, and it was marvellous how deftly he discharged them. He always saw to the lading and unloading, chose the spot for camp, placed the watch o’ nights, gave out the stores, and kept his temper through it all. He was a born leader of men, amiable, quick and never sulked; an admirable thing. Sulkiness is rather a big trait in the Somali character; it usually springs from wounded vanity.
At the water holes we fell in with some more Somalis, who gave the Baron Munchausen news of lions in the vicinity. By the time our henchman had elaborated the story the lions were practically in our zareba, and we were much discouraged, feeling that, in all human probability, judging by previous results, we were as far off lions as ever.
That night, after a somewhat longer, more tiring trek than usual, for the first time in my life I heard a lion roar. I say for the first time, because in my superiority I tell you that the grunting, short, peevish crying heard in the great cat house at the Zoo at feeding-time cannot be called roaring, after one has heard the wonderful sound of His Majesty hunting. My heart seemed to stand still with awe as I listened to that never-to-be-forgotten sound. Terrific and majestic, it reverberated through the silence of the night, and seemed to repeat itself in echoes when all was really still.
The dawn is the time when lions roar most. They occasionally give tongue when actually hunting, often after feeding. The sound varies with the age and lung power of the animal, and has many gradations, sometimes sounding as though the pain of doing it at all hurt the throat, sometimes the sound comes in great abrupt coughs, and again one hears even triumphant roars.
We rose early. Indeed, I do not think we slept again after hearing the longed-for serenade, and arranging for all the hunters to accompany us, set off on our new steeds to spoor for lion. After about six miles of roughish going we struck the tracks. We examined them with the greatest interest, and Clarence demonstrated to us the evidence that the spoor was very new indeed, that the lions were two in number and going at a walking pace. I soon learnt when a lion was walking and when he commenced to run. The lion, being a cat, has retractile claws, and therefore when he walks the pugs are even and rounded. The instant he alters the pace and runs, the nail-marks are plain, and the sand is usually slightly furred up by the pad.
High above us, sailing round and round majestically, were many vultures. Sometimes one would swoop low, to rise again. It was plain from the screaming of the birds a kill was at hand. We pushed on, an indescribable excitement gripping me. I regarded every bush furtively. What secrets might it not hold? Abreast of it, passed it. Nothing!
I had a taut feeling of strained relief; I glanced at Cecily, but you could not guess her feeling from her face. I felt I should like to walk, to feel terra firma beneath my feet, and grasp my rifle instead of reins; but Clarence had said nothing, and plodded along by my side. He was walking, but four hunters were mounted.
In a slightly open space—the whole of the sandy waste was dotted here with bushes taller than a man—we came on what had once been a graceful aoul, mangled and torn. The lions had dined, and that heavily, only the shoulders of the gazelle being left. The sand was tossed up and ploughed into furrows in the death struggle, and from the scene of the last phase wound a lion track going towards a thick bunch of thorn. It seemed likely the lions were lying up in the immediate vicinity. The lion feeds in a very businesslike manner, and after a kill gorges himself to repletion, then, not to put too fine a point on it, goes a little way off, is violently and disgustingly sick, after which he returns and gorges some more. Then he sleeps, off and on, for perhaps three days, when he hunts again. When hunting, immense distances are covered, and though he hunts alone, his mate comes up with him eventually to share the spoil. They seem to have some way of communicating their whereabouts that is quite as effective as our telegraphic system.
I felt it was quite time to quit my saddle, and be clear of the pony, so dismounted and prepared for action, taking my rifle and looking to it. It was only just in time for my peace of mind. In one tense second I realised I had seen two monstrous moving beasts, yellowish and majestic. They were very close, and moved at a slow pace from the bush ahead into a patch of still thicker cover to the left. I remember that though the great moment for which we had planned and longed and striven was really at hand, all my excitement left me, and there was nothing but a cold tingling sensation running about my veins. Clarence in a moment showed the excellent stage-management for which he was famous, and I heard as in a dream the word of command that sent our hunters, the Baron included, dashing after our quarry shouting and yelling and waving spears. Again I caught a glimpse of the now hurrying beasts. How mighty they looked! In form as unlike a prisoned lion as can well be imagined. They hardly seemed related to their cousins at the Zoo. The mane of the wild lion is very much shorter. No wild lion acquires that wealth of hair we admire so much. The strenuous life acts as hair-cutter. And yet the wild beast is much the most beautiful in his virile strength and suggestion of enormous power.
The lions being located, we crept on warily towards the bush, a citadel of khansa and mimosa scrub, a typical bit of jungle cover. The lions sought it so readily, as they had dined so heavily that they were feeling overdone. The men went around the lair and shouted and beat at the back. Whether the cats were driven forward or not with the din, or whether they had not penetrated far within the retreat at first, I cannot, of course, tell, but I saw from thirty-five yards off, as I stood with my finger on the trigger, ferocious gleaming eyes, and heard ugly short snarls, breaking into throaty suppressed roars every two or three seconds. The jungle cover parted, and with lithe stretched shoulders a lioness shook herself half free of the density, then crouched low again. Down, down, until only the flat of her skull showed, and her small twitching ears. In one more moment she would be on us. I heard Cecily say something. I think it may have been “Fire!” Sighting for as low as I could see on that half arc of yellow I pulled the trigger, and Cecily’s rifle cracked simultaneously. The head of the lioness pressed lower, and nothing showed above the ridge of grass and thorn. The lioness must be dead. And yet, could one kill so great a foe so simply? We stood transfixed. The sun blared down, a butterfly flickered across the sand, a cricket chirruped in long-drawn, twisting notes. These trifles stamped themselves on my memory as belonging for ever to the scene, and now I cannot see a butterfly or hear a cricket’s roundelay without going back to that day of days and wonder unsurpassed.
Then I did an inanely stupid thing. It was my first lion shoot, and my ignorance and enthusiasm carried me away. I ran forward to investigate, with my rifle at the trail. I don’t excuse such folly, and I got my deserts. Worse remains behind. It was my rule to reload the right barrel immediately after firing, and the left I called my emergency supply. My rule I say, and yet in this most important shoot of all it was so in theory only! I had forgotten everything but the dead lioness. I had forgotten the bush contained another enemy.
A snarling quick roar, and almost before I could do anything but bring up my rifle and fire without the sights, a lion broke from the side of the brake. I heard an exclamation behind me, and my cousin’s rifle spoke. The bullet grazed the lion’s shoulder only, and lashed him to fury. All I can recollect is seeing the animal’s muscles contract as he gathered himself for a springing charge, and instinct told me the precise minute he would take off. My nerves seemed to relax, and I tried to hurl myself to one side. There was no power of hurling left in me, and I simply fell, not backwards nor forwards, but sideways, and that accident or piece of luck saved me. For the great cat had calculated his distance, and had to spring straight forward. He had not bargained for a victim slightly to the right or left. His weight fell on my legs merely, and his claws struck in. Before he had time to turn and rend me, almost instantaneously my cousin fired. I did not know until later that she did so from a distance of some six yards only, having run right up to the scene in her resolve to succour me. The top of the lion’s head was blown to smithereens, and the heavy body sank. I felt a greater weight; the blood poured from his mouth on to the sand, the jaws yet working convulsively. The whole world seemed to me to be bounded north, south, east, and west by Lion. The carcase rolled a little and then was still. Pinned by the massive haunches I lay in the sand.
Clarence, Cecily, and all the hunters stood around. I noticed how pale she was. Even the tan of her sunburnt face could not conceal the ravages of the last five minutes. The men pulled the heavy carcase away, taking him by the fore-paws, his tail trailing, and exquisite head all so hideously damaged. Only his skin would be available now, still——
I sat up in a minute, feeling indescribably shaky, and measured the lion with my eye. He could be gloriously mounted, and “He will just do for that space in the billiard room,” my voice tailed off. I don’t remember anything else until I found myself in my tent with my cousin rendering first aid, washing the wounds and dressing them with iodoform. Only one gash was of any moment. It was in the fleshy part of the thigh. We had not sufficient medical skill to play any pranks, so kept to such simple rules as extreme cleanliness, antiseptic treatment, and nourishing food. Indeed, our cook did well for me those days, and made me at intervals the most excellent mutton broth, which he insisted on bringing to me himself, in spite of the obvious annoyance of the butler, who had lived in the service of an English family and so knew what was what.
The days and nights were very long just then.
Clarence came to see me often. His occupation was gone. Cecily did not leave me at all at first. I believe our good fellow wondered if we should ever require him to hunt again. He did not know the proverb, “Once bitten, twice shy,” but you could see he felt it.
One evening, when I was convalescent, Clarence brought one of the men to us with inquiries as to the best way to cure him.
“What is the matter?” was naturally the first question, as we were not the human Homoceas our men seemed to take us for.
Our servant had been chewing—must have been—a piece of thorn, and a particularly spiky insidious bit had stuck itself well in the back of his throat, near the left tonsil. It would seem an easy enough thing to pull out, but it was the most difficult of operations. We could not make any very prolonged attempt at dislodgment because every time we tried to touch the bit of thorn the man either shut his mouth with a snap and bit us, or pretended he must be sick forthwith. It was very laughable, but a little worrying. We tried nippers, a vast pair, that filled the mouth to overflowing and hid the offending thorn from sight, We tried blunt scissors, which Cecily said would not cut because they could not, and might be relied on to act the part of nippers. Of course they did cut, when they weren’t needed to, the roof of the patient’s mouth, and matters grew worse than ever. The light was wholly insufficient, and we could hardly see at all. The candle lamp never shone in the right direction, and we laughed so—the two Somalis were in such deadly earnest. I do not think any harm would have resulted if the thorn had been left where it stuck until the morning. But no! The men said if the thorn were left the throat would swell, and if the throat swelled the patient would choke, and if he choked he would be dead. The cook produced some of the doughy bread he was past-master in concocting, a sticky mass to act as panacea, and our thorn-stuck henchman swallowed a lot to the detriment of his digestion. No use. The thorn would not be levered out. Then—brilliant idea—try a hairpin! Comic papers have it that a woman can go through the world with a hairpin as a tool for everything, and come out victorious. I have never seen one put in the list of a hunter’s requirements—a great oversight. Take my word for it, a hair-pin does the work of ten ordinary implements. The rounded end of one hooked round the offending thorn ejected the cause of all the trouble, and peace reigned in the camp.
Much better than I was. I can stand and walk. I will
even pace slowly to my kinsman’s
A Winter’s Tale
My leg, with the extra big gash, was a frightful nuisance. It was not much, but was just enough to prevent my going out hunting for some time. I could not run at all; and if you would hunt buck or beast, you must run like Atalanta. From point to point you scamper on occasion, and it is all as glorious as it sounds.
During the period of my rest I prevailed on Cecily to go out as of old, and try her luck. I occupied myself in caring for the trophies we had by now acquired. All the skulls were carefully buried near the largest ant-hill in the vicinity, and were dug up every time we struck camp. The earlier trophies were by now picked almost clean. The masks and skins generally were rubbed with alum, taxidermine, and wood ashes. I was very careful to smooth out any creases, and gave particular attention to the magnificent coat from mine enemy. Even with occasional drenchings the trophies suffered no harm, and we generally in rainy times tried to spare them a covering of waterproof sheeting. In those days of idleness the bored-looking camels had been two short expeditions for water supplies. Cecily did wonders, bagging a fine oryx after an exciting stalk, a lesser koodoo—a most beautiful creature—and a jackal. It was of the black-backed variety, with silver hairs and flaming yellow sides, and I admired him immensely. He was a monster too, and measured four feet as he lay.
The men were revelling in any amount of meat of my cousin’s providing. I think we were more generous in this direction than are many hunters. The caravan is expected to rely on the usual ration of rice and dates—the latter a gummed together mass of fruit, which is eaten by the Somalis in handfuls. They were quite good, for I tasted them frequently.
We bought sheep throughout the trip, either by exchange or for cash; and, as I say, there was a plentiful supply of venison.
As soon as I could ride we marched, and very glad we were to leave the place where circumstances had enforced so long a stay. The camp began to take on the slovenly, dirty ways of the average Somali karia The spirit of idleness sits ill on these natives. They like doing nothing, but doing nothing does not like them, and very speedily they get slothful.
The procedure of our camping arrangements varied but little when things were normal and going smoothly. On selecting the right spot to halt, every man went to his own work, and our tents were up almost as soon as they were taken off the kneeling camels, who flopped down, joyfully obedient at the first sign of a rest, and, being relieved of the loads, were allowed to graze at once. Our butler put out everything we needed, set up the beds, placed our goods and chattels to hand, and prepared a bath each for us if we happened to be in a place where a bath was not too great a luxury, and a mere sponge if water was absent.
Meanwhile the cook had a fire going, or theoretically he had, though very often it was a long time before it got started. The camel men hacked down thorn bushes, using native axes, and hangols, or wooden crooks, for pulling the wood about with. The chant that accompanies all Somali occupations was loud and helpful. Sometimes we took a hand at this zareba building, using an English axe or a bill-hook, and the men would laugh in surprise, and hold the boughs in readiness for us to chop. They liked the English axes. “Best axe I see,” the camel-man in chief said. But we would not lend them permanently, because they would have been broken at once. Every mortal thing goes to pieces in the hands of these Somalis; most extraordinary. Only tough native implements could stand against such treatment. Buck were carried slung on Sniders, and bent the weapon into graceful curves. The sights and even the triggers were knocked off. The Somali boys broke all the handles off the pans, and seemed incapable of taking care of anything. Many of the native harns gave out at the different wells because of the smashing about they received, and meant our buying more from passing tribes.
At night my shikar pistol, loaded, lay to my hand on a box at my bedside, for what I don’t quite know, as I should have disliked immensely to use it. But it seemed the correct thing; the butler expected it. He always asked me to give him the weapon from my belt about supper time, and I next saw it in readiness for midnight affrays. “Chota-hazari” was served us by the butler calling loudly outside our tents, or by delicately tapping two stones together as an intimation that a cup of tea stood on the ground at the entrance, when it meant making a long arm to reach it. The teacups were not Dresden; they were of thick enamel—we only had one each and two over in case of accidents or visitors—and to appreciate them at their true value we would have needed the mouths of flukes.
Sometimes a case of necessaries required for breakfast would be in our tents doing duty as furniture, and then it was very funny indeed. The cook would come and chant outside that unless he could have the box Mem-sahib no breakfast would see, and if Mem-sahib no breakfast saw she would upbraid the chef because he had not got the box. All this would be woven into a little tune in a mixture of Somali, Hindostanee, and so-called English. Mem-sahib would chant back to the effect that the necessaries would appear all in good time. The cook would retire to stir up the fire and cuff his assistant, a tow-headed “youth,” whose raison d’etre appeared to be the cleaning, or making worse dirty, of the pans, and preparing things for the culinary artist. The tow-headed one was a mere dauber; at least our cook told us so in effect, with great disdain, when I suggested the assistant should be allowed to try his ’prentice hand. That was one day when I got worried about my digestion holding out against the insidious attacks made on it by the high-class cookery we were supposed to be having.
It was a long time before I got used to the hot nauseating smell of the camels. It was ever present in camp, and when the wind blew into one’s tent the indescribable aroma transcended all others. Barring the horrid odour, we had nothing else to complain of in our patient dumb servants. The camels were good tempered beasts, taking them all round; very different to Indian camels, among whom it would have been impossible to wander so nonchalantly o’ nights. All our camels, save one, were of the white variety usually to be found in Berbera. The one exception was a trojan creature, dark and swarthy looking, who hailed from distant Zeila. He was a splendid worker, untiring and ungrumbling, never roaring at loading-up time. But the Gel Ad, or Berbera, camel is considered by experts to be the better animal. We preferred “Zeila” to any animal we had; we christened him after his home. It is very odd, and may be will be found difficult to understand, as to explain, but in some of the camels’ faces we traced the most speaking likenesses to friends and relatives, either through expression, form, or fancy. Anyway, they were like many of our acquaintances; and so, to Cecily and myself, the different camels were thoroughly described and known as “Uncle Robert,” “Aunt Helena,” or “Mrs. Stacy,” and so on and so forth. One haughty white camel, with a lofty sneer of disdain and arrogance about it, was so very like a human beauty of our acquaintance that we smiled every time we looked at the animal. Our caravan on the march straggled like a flock of geese. Some two or three of the camel-men had to lead the van; the others lagged behind in a bunch. The hunters took it in turns to ride the spare ponies, and Cecily and I rode the steeds we had purchased at the first Somali karia we came upon.
I often wondered what our followers thought of two women being in the position to command attention, deference, and work—the Somali feminine is such a very crushed down creature, and takes a back seat at all times. Even if a superabundance of meat is on hand she is not spared a tit-bit, but is presented with fearsome scraps and entrails, the while the masculine element gorges on the choicest morsels. This is rather different to our home system. I remember an Englishman of my acquaintance telling me once, with no acrimony of tone, nothing but calm acceptance of the inevitable, that he had never tasted the breast of chicken since his marriage five years before! What a glimpse into a household!
My first excursion was after that oryx I had so set my heart upon, and Clarence, to his joy, accompanied me.
“Much better than I was,” but still not quite fit even yet. I carefully stalked a small herd of oryx, four to be precise, crawling about on hands and knees for upwards of an hour, and when my chance came at last, and a bull (not anything very wonderful I am glad to remember) passed broadside on, well within range, I fired—and missed! At the very instant a violent stab agony in my damaged leg made me cringe involuntarily. The oryx was gone!
I sat down, and but for the presence of my shikari I am sure I should have cried.
Game was now most plentiful, gerenük, oryx, and aoul being more often in sight than not. Thunderstorms became more frequent, and rain more insistent. Since leaving the place where we sojourned so long we had not known one day in which rain did not fall some time during the twenty-four hours. We had managed fairly well by going out “between whiles,” but now there weren’t any, and there came a time of no half measures. Steady downpours bothered us no end. I am very used to water, because my habitat in England is in that delectable spot where of all other places nobody dreams of going out minus an umbrella. And I have seen rain in many corners of the world, but never rain like the Somali variety. It is for all the world like holding on to the string of a shower bath—it pours and pours. Of course whilst the rain is on there is no use in endeavouring to spoor, for all traces of game are simply wiped out by the floods of water as a sponge cleans a slate. We could do nothing save remain in our soaked tents and fume. Things were very bad and uncomfortable at this time. For a whole week we never knew what it was to be dry. Every mortal thing we had was drenched, and the poor tents were no more use than brown paper in face of the continued avalanches of water. We used to wring our blankets each night, and but for copious doses of quinine I don’t know how I should have pulled through. Cecily pinned her faith on weak whisky-and-water, of which latter commodity there was now no scarcity, and both our schemes worked admirably, and bar a little rheumatism in my left shoulder I carried on all right. At last—“a fine day; let us go out and kill something” came and, the conditions being splendid for spooring, we went off bent on an execution—of anything.
Running in and out among some rocks were the quaintest little rabbits, without tails, Manx rabbits, odd stumpy greyish bodies, and an engaging air of indifference to passers-by.
A great yellow-beaked hornbill sat on a tree and made his own peculiar croaking noise. Most wise he looked as he put his grey head to one side and investigated us. Yet his looks bewrayed him; for when I threw some dates at him to see if he knew how to catch them in his beak, he let them pass him all unheeded. His cousin at the Zoo could teach many things.
After a long ride we left our ponies to be led along behind by a syce, and spoored on foot. Clarence and the two hunters were still riding. We nearly went off our heads with joy and excitement when we suddenly came on a neat little path made by lion. The print was perfect. The most perfect I have ever seen. The soft earth had taken the mould like dough. There were the fore indents, there the cushions of the pad. We knelt down in our eagerness to realise how really soaked everything was. The ground was sodden, and every step oozed water.
We ran on, Clarence and the hunters keeping pace easily with us. There were scrubby bushes all about, but the pugs threaded in and out, and held plainly on, until they ended in a vast pile of stones and brushwood. An ideal lair. Clearly our quarry was run to earth. With a “whuff” two mighty animals leapt up, over the stones and away, just for all the world like a couple of agile common or garden cats. Cecily and I flew after them. I don’t think I ever ran so hard in my life before. I might have been the pursued rather than the pursuer. The ground opened up to great plateau country, and the lion and lioness were cantering close together, almost touching shoulders. Making a detour Clarence and the hunters rounded the great cats up. For a moment it almost seemed that they pulled up dead as the gallant little ponies dashed by them, but a man is fairly safe on a galloping pony. I laid this flattering well-known unction to my soul as I saw the lion go for “The Baron,” whilst the lioness simply broke away, and vanished in that marvellous manner of disappearing which lions know the secret of.
With quivering tail extended, and most horrible coughing snarls the lion seemed about to disprove the idea that he was no match for a mounted horseman. But away and away dashed the sporting little pony, and His Majesty turned his terrific attentions to us, and in a whirl of tossed-up mud came to within forty yards of the place where Cecily and I stood in the open, rigid and awaiting the onslaught. Then we let him have it. I saw his tremendous head over my sights as in short bounds he cleared the distance that separated us. I fired simultaneously with my cousin.
I was using the heavy 12-bore, but I kept my fingers on the rear trigger as we advanced cautiously to the dropped lion. He crumpled up like a toy with the mainspring broken, and sank as he finished his last spring with his massive head between his paws—a majestic and magnificent sight.
I measured him previous to the skinning operation and, stretched out, from his nose to the end of his tail he touched seven feet ten and a half inches. Of course this was before rigor-mortis had set in, and he may have stretched a little. His mane was shorter than our other damaged lion trophy, and entirely clear from the patches of mange we found on one or two other lions we bagged. But he was infested with ticks. I should think life must have been an irritating affair for him.
We were immensely set up, and only regretted that the lioness had made good her escape. One of the most extraordinary features about lions to me is the way so large an animal can obliterate itself; they simply blend into the landscape. Their brownish-yellow skins, so similar in colour to the burnt grass, and their agile bodies, which can crouch and wriggle like any lizard, play parts in the scheme for invisibility. On one occasion Cecily and I surprised a lion in a small nullah. (We were a trifle astonished ourselves, too, but that is a detail.) We ran in pursuit, being out of range, and though we kept our eyes fixed on him, or thought we did, that lion seemed to disappear as suddenly as though the earth had swallowed him up. Then Clarence pointed out to us a patch of brown grass, taller than the rest—any amateur like myself would have sworn it was grass. “Libbah,” our man said impressively. And “libbah” it was. We approached and the “grass” with a bound was off! We bagged him in the end, and he was a very old creature indeed. Alone, and almost toothless, his day was almost spent, and he died more royally at our hands than ending as the ignominious prey of some hyæna. He put me in mind of a wonderful lion picture I saw once at the Academy, which portrayed an old, old lion, at twilight, in his own beloved haunts, weak and doddering, yet still a king—too strong even yet to be pulled down by the lurking forms, which with lurid eyes watched the dying lion from the dark thorn background. I think the picture was called “Old Age.”
The strange inborn dread all wild creatures have of man, unknown man, makes even the mightiest lion try for safety. There is, of course, no sort of cowardice in him. In open country he knows the man has all the advantage, but even then he faces the music grandly when cornered. In cover, instinct tells him most of the game lies with himself. The Somalis have a way—I am afraid this is a bit of a chestnut—of riding down lion that is really a clever performance If some venturesome beast makes a habit of helping himself to a baby camel or two from the karia at night, he is a marked beast, and a small army of Somalis prepare to give battle. Riding their quick little tats, and all armed with spears, they drive the lion, with prodigious shouting and yelling, into the open. Here they close around him and harry him hither and thither, dazing the mazed creature with their cries and hurry. In the end the monarch always abdicates, and some Somali, quicker than his fellows, finishes the business with a drive of his spear. It is not unlike the principle of bull-fighting, except that in the case of the Somalis self-preservation originates the necessity for the battle.
In the lion-world I noticed that the rule of Place aux dames did not apply. The male invariably tried to take the shortest route to safety, and madam had to look after herself.
Buck of every variety forms the staple food of lions. I have heard that they have been known to kill wart-hog, but never myself came on any proof of this.
A large trading caravan passed us here en route to Berbera. They were taking a heterogeneous collection for sale at the coast town, ostrich feathers, ghee, gum-arabic, prayer-mats and skins of all varieties. They sold us some ghee, which we were glad to get, as our supply was running low. Their huts were standing when we came on the caravan, and on the march were carried on camels as our tents were. Like turtles, we carried our houses with us wherever we went. We wrote two or three letters, enclosing them in an outer envelope asking that they should be posted. Then we gave them to the head-man of the trading party with a request that he should hand them to the first sahib he saw in Berbera. The letters eventually turned up at their destinations, so some good Samaritan posted them.
That same evening, as Cecily was riding alongside me, a group of some twenty Somali horsemen rode up to us, and every one of them closed tight around us until all the ponies were wedged like sardines. The whole crowd wished to shake hands and welcome us. The Somali handshake is not a shake strictly speaking. It is a mere pressing of hands and is prefaced usually by the salutation “Aleikum salaam,” which you reply to by reversing the order of it, “Salaam aleikum.” Then generally the interview, if lagging a little, is materially assisted by “Mot! Mot! io Mot!” (Hail! Hail! Again Hail!) This is a great feature of the conversation, and, shouted as only a Somali can shout it, is a rousing welcome indeed.
These friends of ours were the outposts of a vast horde of Somalis, for at some wells we saw multitudes of camels standing in a sort of lake, quite a good-sized piece of water, in a grilling sun. The water was turgid and foul, or I should have schemed for a bath out of it. Every one came to call, and to inquire what we were doing. They crowded round the trophies drying, putting their fingers on the skins and then tasting the fingers to see what the result was like. They were a great nuisance, and we had to trek on again to get away from their unwelcome attentions. One of our camels fought another as we loaded up. Never did I see such viciousness. The fur flew, and bites were many, and at last the victor drove the vanquished roaring before it. The camel-man who valeted the conquering hero seemed quite charmed, but as the beaten animal had some nasty bites in the neck, the performance did not seem to us so meritorious. In a day or two the bites had developed into really open wounds and the men treated them in cruel-to-be-kind fashion by applying red-hot stones, tying this drastic treatment firmly over the sore. Burning seemed to be an all-curing cure, and during most of the weeks a spear was heated with which to raise blisters on one camel or another.
Mercy o’ me, what a multitude are here! They grow still,
too; from all sides they are coming
King Henry VIII
O, I have passed a miserable night,
So full of ugly sights, of ghostly dreams
King Richard III
One of our hunters, a melancholy visaged individual, was a very amusing personage to go out with alone. He always acted like the guide of a Cook’s personally conducted tour. Not a tree, or twig, or water-hole was left to be seen or not seen by us. All must be brought to the notice of the Mem-sahibs. It reduced the tracking of game to a delicious farce. If we sighted an antelope he would first point it out to me most carefully, telling me about the distance the creature was from us, perhaps saying commandingly, “You shoot um,” handing me my own rifle as though he were giving me a valuable present.
Sometimes he even went the length of putting it to my shoulder and cocking it for me, and was a grandmotherly hunter indeed! He spoiled a glorious chance for me one day with his chaperoning me through tactics, actually telling me the precise moment to fire, and when I did, at my own moment, and—through his rattling me so—missed ignominiously, he whispered to himself, with a whole world of resignation in his tone, “Mem-sahib no shoot, Mem-sahib no shoot!”
Mem-sahib turned round and gave the idiot a bit of her mind. I had had enough of being hurried and flurried by his ways. I learned early on to take no notice of my shikari. Clarence never made the egregious mistake of obtruding himself. Some of the others were not so cautious, and were very quick with their ideas and remarks. It is very easy to rattle a person after a tiring crawl, and throw the whole scheme out of gear to fall about your ears like an evanescent card-house. One asks time to recover breath and balance, taking one’s own way. Then on occasion it is necessary to shoot from all sorts of positions, and it is disconcerting to have any one commenting. I prefer to be able to sit down fair and square so that both knees may be elbow rests; but, alas, not often the opportunity is given in big game shooting to choose your position. You seize the moment, and the moment may find you placed very awkwardly.
We were now again in the most wonderful region for game that the heart of the most grasping sportsman could desire. Herds of buck were met with on every march we made, and galloping forms were outlined on every horizon. If there were more aoul to be seen in the early days of the discovery of Somaliland as a Land of Promise for the hunter, I do not know how the ground supported them. If the larger and more dangerous fauna has been thinned almost to extinction, it would seem that the lesser has thriven. Fewer lions to find food means more buck to live.
You never find aoul in jungle country, and consequently they are of gazelle the most easily seen. Frequenting the grass plateaus and flat sandy wastes, as they do, whereon a few straggling bushes try to grow, the white hindquarters stand out clear and distinct as a target. When going off, startled, they stretch out, seeming to gain many inches in length, and when wounded an aoul never creeps off to die in impenetrable bush where the hunter has a difficulty in locating the hiding creature. Sensibly he selects the open “bun,” and there is despatched the quicker.
On coming to one open space of country I rubbed my eyes to see if I were awake or dreaming. The place swarmed with aoul. It was like some field at home, full of cows before milking time, except that these were very animated creatures, fighting battles together, and making the history for buckland. I lay down in a tuft of grass for an hour or more, watching the pantomime. The aoul were in two great herds, separate and distinct. Each was in the charge of a war-like old buck who had drilled his does into fine order, and vigilantly saw that they kept a fair distance from the rival herd. Sometimes a doe of frivolous propensities would essay to seek fresh fields and pastures new, edging away in the direction of the other harem. Nemesis was after her on the instant, in the person of her outraged lord, who gave chase, and cuffing her about most vigorously, soon showed her the error of such ways, restoring her to his charmed circle again. On the outskirts of both well guarded harems there were many likely looking young bucks, who were kept at a respectful distance from the does they admired so much by the flying charges and battering onslaughts of each boss buck. To say their lives were strenuous is to convey nothing. They had no time to eat, or rest, or sleep.
Then, by a hideous mischance the two parties of aoul converged, and the strain was at breaking-point. For the system of all things was disturbed, and worse than all, the two old bucks met face to face. Now fight they must for the mastery, or be shamed for ever in the soft eyes of all their feminine kind. At it they went, hammer and tongs, clawing with razor hoofs, circling round each other, clashing, crashing. Meanwhile—but we all know what the mice do when the cat’s away! And this golden moment was the young bucks’ opportunity. Every Jack found a Jill, and some fortunate ones many Jills, and ran off promptly with their loot. Then when the old bucks had fought till they were dripping with foam and blood-flecked muzzles, the one slightly the stronger would end the fray with a terrific drive, and send his vanquished foe bellowing back to—nothing. The harem had all eloped.
One might lie and watch a herd of aoul for hours, really in full view, and not cause them any great anxiety. We never talked save in whispers, and it was really amazing to see how very indifferent the creatures grew to our presence. If they did take it into their heads to feign alarm, remaining quite still seemed to restore confidence in us. The old bucks and does were the most suspicious; the young were far more trusting. Just as it is with we human things. Illusions are smashed in buck land as in England.
The ridiculous inquisitiveness of the aoul makes him easy to stalk. The glinting of a rifle barrel seems to charm him rather than frighten him, as it would one of our Scotch deer. Sense of smell in the buck of the wild is even more marvellously marked than in the case of our home deer, and it must be so when we consider the added dangers. Death lurks on every side, but for one gerunük that falls a victim to King Leo’s appetite, I should imagine five aoul run into his very jaws in mistaken endeavour to see how many teeth in working order the fearsome enemy has. Never did I see such an inquisitive genus!
I found one or two newly born kids by watching the mother’s movements. I would mark the place in my mind to which she kept trotting away, then go later. It needed so careful a hunt before one would come on the little kid, covered up so ingeniously, in its cradle in a thorn brake. In a very short time though the babies get their jungle legs and can follow the mother at her own pace. I don’t know of any very much prettier sight than an aoul nursery full of kids playing. They are such sportive little creatures, just like lambs at home—jumping imaginary obstacles, running races, mimicking their elders in childish battle. Any little alarm, crack of twig, or fearsome rustle sends them all, on the instant, dashing back to the realm of safety by the side of the watchful parent.
As I have said elsewhere, the horns of the aoul differ considerably, and some otherwise well fitted out bucks have no horns at all. These bucks are often as well able to hold their own as their more perfectly equipped (so-called) betters, frequently bossing a herd. Others again have but one horn, and that deformed.
It was near this place of the aoul that a most amusing thing happened. Clarence and I got benighted in the jungle, and didn’t get home until morning. I know that this sounds just like the plot for a fashionable problem novel, but there wasn’t much problem about it really; it all came about as a very natural consequence, and happened mostly through my enthusiasm over another splendid oryx. I stalked this one for hours and hours, and the mosquitoes and heat seemed but to sting him into keener alertness. I could not get within range. I tried on foot, I tried squirming along the ground flat, and then, when there was nothing else for it, I’d mount my little pony once again and furiously dash off in pursuit. When within range I only got the oryx in the leg, a slight wound merely, and I had to try and ride the wounded buck down. A desperate business in this case, for he was not hard hit. I did not like the idea of leaving a hurt creature to die miserably after prolonged torture, so we let him lead us on and on, and it was very nearly dark before I gave that animal the coup-de-grâce. By the time we had secured his head, a fine one indeed, his shield and skin, it was dark. Night had descended upon the jungle. We fired three times in quick succession, a signal agreed on in case we ever got bushed, but we knew the wind was blowing away from the very distant camp.
I told Clarence we would get away as far as possible from the dead oryx, or we should find ourselves in for a livelier night than we bargained for, and have a regular at-home day of most unwelcome callers. We led our ponies and pushed and scrubbed our way through dense undergrowth, ominous rents in my poor coat greeting me as the vicious wait-a-bit thorn held me back. We found the darkness impenetrable in parts, and then in kind of drifts it would lighten a little. At last we made out a small patch of clearing, and decided on camping. The first thing to do was to collect wood for a fire, and as this was a difficult job on so dark an evening, Clarence just grabbed what sticks he could, lighted them, and the welcome glare enabled us to amass a great supply of firewood. I worked hard at this, for I had no mind to be among the jungle folk in darkness. We tethered the ponies as near the fire as possible, where we could see them, and I took the precaution to move the oryx head, &c., from my steed, and place them where I could carefully guard them. I did not want to run the risk of losing the trophies. Besides, it was rather rough on the pony to leave him all baited as it were to attract some hungry beast.
I should, I think, have preferred to lose the pony rather than the oryx, but wanted, if possible, to keep both.
Next came our little supper, and this was quite excellently managed. I always carried an enamel cup and many of Lazenby’s soup squares, together with a supply of biscuits. We had water too in a bottle on Clarence’s saddle, so, filling the cup carefully, I stuck it into the glowing embers. When it boiled in went my compressed tablet of ox-tail, and, after stirring it all with a stick, I had a supper fit for a queen. I made Clarence a brew of mock-turtle next. He said it was very good, and finished off all the biscuit. He then suggested he should keep guard and I might try to sleep. I said we would divide the night, he playing guardian angel the first half and I taking duty for the rest. I showed him my Waterbury, and explained that when the hands stood both together at twelve he was to call me. He seemed to understand. Then I laid me down, but not to rest. I could not help the fear haunting me that my shikari might nod, and in that moment of unconsciousness what awful thing might not happen! Such strange imaginings trouble a semisleeping mind at night that with daylight would cause us no concern at all. I lay and gazed at the stars. Sirius was shining away, and Venus was as beautiful a fraud as ever. I dozed awhile, I suppose, but the strange sounds around me kept my senses more or less awake. The jungle at night! The most eerie thing in the world, with strange short rustlings in the undergrowth, the furtive pad, pad, pad of some soft-footed creature, and ever and again a sound as though some man passed by, laggingly, and dwelling on his steps.
The jungle at night is a world unknown to most shikaris. Even Clarence was not familiar here.
At twelve he called me, furtively pulling my coat sleeve, and saying, “Wake! wake! wake!” I “awakened,” and took the watch. My rifle lay beside me on my right, the oryx trophies on my left. The fire was piled up, shedding shafts of light into the fearsome darkness. The ponies stood dejectedly. This tense silent watching is more of a trial than playacting sleep. I fixed my eyes on the inky blackness ahead, and it was not long before my fancy peopled the shadows with lurking forms. I chid myself. Suddenly I could make out two blazing lights, gleaming like little lamps. The eyes of some preying animal. I sidled over to the sleeping Clarence, and pushed him. He wakened instantly. I told him of the eyes. “Shebel,” he said. A leopard! This was nice, but why bother us when the remains of a whole oryx was so close to hand. We sat and waited. The eyes again—sometimes at a lower level than others, as though the beast crouched as he gazed. “Let us fire together,” I said.
At my soft “One, two, three,” we blazed away at the twin specks of light. A scuffle, then a hideous screaming cry, that echoed again in the stillness. Worse remains behind. The ponies thoroughly upset by the unusual sounds of the jungle at night, and not expecting the enormous report, simply stampeded before we had time to get to them. They made off in mad terror, and there we were in a worse hole than ever. Sleep was out of the question. We made some more soup to pass the hours, julienne and mulligatawny this time, and after that I fell to talking to Clarence about England. He asked many questions that he evidently badly wanted answered. One was to know if these trophies had some great intrinsic value there that so many people come at such trouble and danger to themselves to get them? He evidently was much puzzled.
At last the dawn came, and at the first hint of it we prepared to move. The scene was of rare beauty. In the dense undergrowth that hid the trees to the height of several feet was a wonder world of mystery. Webs of Arachne’s weaving made bars of silver gossamer from bush to bough. ’Twas like a scene from Shakespeare’s woodlands. The same thrill and marvel, joy, happiness and pain. For life is not all a song. Fierce burning strife comes oft to mar the stillness, death, too, in crudest form. In the jungle all is one long struggle for survival; no excuses are made, none wanted, they kill to live, just as we human things kill each other every day; only in civilisation it is done more delicately.
First we investigated the place of the eyes, and there, sure enough, was a blood trail. We followed but a few yards to find a large striped hyæna—a magnificent beast, yellow gray, with black stripes on his shoulders, and beautiful mane and bushy gray tail. He measured from nose to tail four feet eight inches. We skinned and decapitated him, a long and horrid business, and then took up our none too pleasant loads and departed. We passed the remains of the dead oryx, but there was little left of him. The hyænas had been feasting all the night, and now the vultures were picking his bones. It was still darkish as we took our way campwards, the mad rush of the ponies being clearly visible to us. Through bushes, anyhow, helter skelter they had pelted.
I had to stop and rest frequently, as my load was more than a little heavy, though Clarence carried as much, and more, than he ought. The rifles alone were no light weight, and when it came to the slain animals as well we found them all a bit of a trial.
In some thick grass a great wart-hog rose up before me, and after giving me a look from his tiny fierce eyes, lost himself again. I flung my load down, all but the very necessary rifle, and went after him. He made some ugly rushes in the long grass, but I dodged and chased him to clearer country, until I could get in a shot which, raking him, ended his career as a perfect king of his kind. I did not want to take his tusks merely, as I desired his head to be a complete trophy. But when Clarence strenuously refused to touch the creature I knew I could not then, tired as I was, play butcher myself. So I had to be contented with digging out his huge tushes. And a very messy job it was too.
We took up our loads again, and went back over the ground over which we had chased the oryx the evening before. I was progressing wearily enough when I almost stepped on a yellow snake, with a dark head, lying near a thorn bush. It was only about eighteen inches long, but quite long enough to make me jump some feet, all encumbered as I was. Clarence looked genuinely surprised.
“You not afraid of aliphint,” he said, a thing we had about as much chance of meeting as the man in the moon; “what for you ’fraid now?”
I told him women have a long-standing quarrel with serpents: that a serpent once spoiled the happiness of a woman and turned her out of a garden where she fain would be.
“She cousin of yours?” he asked, with true Somali inquisitiveness.
“Very distant,” I answered.
Cecily and a couple of hunters met us quarter way. She told us the ponies rushed into camp in the early morning, as I had thought they would. She had not been unduly anxious about me, knowing I was with Clarence, and guessing we were bushed. They never heard the shots at all.
I did enjoy my breakfast, and never had a cup of tea that tasted half so good.
The thought of all that pork wasting in the near vicinity bothered us no end. Very greedy, I know. But, you see, dainties were not often to be had. We ordered out a couple of ponies, and rode back to the scene of my early morning encounter with the wart-hog to find him, marvel of marvels, intact. Though a thwarted looking vulture of business-like appearance flapped off and sat down in stone’s throw. They have a mighty contempt for man, these birds, or else it is they recognise they aren’t worth powder and shot.
Cecily evolved the idea of converting half the wart-hog into bacon, putting it into pickle, and promising it would equal the finest home cured. The ham was to be a treat to which we should look forward for weeks.
We pickled it all right, or what seemed like all right to us, rubbing it daily with handfuls of salt as we had seen ham cured at home. And then one day, when a meal was badly wanted, and the larder was empty of all else, we essayed to cut the treasured ham and fry it in slices. Cecily inserted a knife. The resultant odour was appalling. So were the awful little maggots that rose in hundreds. Clearly we didn’t know how to pickle ham, or else the ham of wart-hog would not take salt as our pig at home does. We could see the line to where the pickle had penetrated. Below chaos! Ruefully we had a funeral of our looked-for supper, and fell back on the never-failing “Elizabeth Lazenby.”