not all our days were spent in excitement—far far from it. for six or seven months the rains were too heavy, the heat too great, the grass too rank, and the fever too bad in the bushveld for any one to do any good there; so that for more than half of the year we had no hunting to speak of, as there was not much to be done above the berg. but even during the hunting season there were many off-days and long spells when we never fired a shot. the work with the waggons was hard when we had full loads, the trekking slow and at night, so that there was always something to do in the daytime—repairs to be done, oxen to be doctored, grass and water to be looked for, and so on; and we had to make up sleep when we could. even when the sport was good and the bag satisfactory there was usually nothing new to tell about it. so jock and i had many a long spell when there was no hunting, many a bad day when we worked hard but had no sport, and many a good day when we got what we were after and nothing happened that would interest any one else. every hunt was exciting and interesting for us, even those in which we got nothing; indeed some of the most interesting were those in which the worst disappointments occurred, when after hard work and long chases the game escaped us. to tell all that happened would be to tell the same old story many times over; but indeed, it would not be possible to tell all, for there were some things—the most interesting of all, perhaps—which only jock knew.
after the fight with the duiker there was never any doubt as to what he would do if allowed to follow up a wounded animal. it made a deal of difference in the hunting to know that he could be trusted to find it and hold on or bay it until i could get up. the bush was so thick that it was not possible to see more than a very few hundred yards at best, and the country was so dry and rough that if a wounded animal once got out of sight only an expert tracker had any chance of finding it again. jock soon showed himself to be better than the best of trackers, for besides never losing the trail he would either pull down the buck or, if too big for that, attack and worry even the biggest of them to such an extent that they would have to keep turning on him to protect themselves and thus give me the chance to catch up.
but the first result of my confidence in him was some perfectly hopeless chases. it is natural enough to give oneself the benefit of any doubt; the enthusiastic beginner always does so, and in his case the lack of experience often creates a doubt where none should have existed; and the doubt is often very welcome, helping him out with explanations of the unflattering facts. for the listener it is, at best and worst, only amusing or tiresome; but for the person concerned it is different—for, as rocky said, ‘it don’t fool any one worth speakin’ of ’cept yerself.’ and ‘there’s the rub.’ whenever a bullet struck with a thud, and no dust appeared to show that it had hit the ground, i thought that it must have wounded the buck; and once you get the idea that the buck is hit, all sorts of reasons appear in support of it. there is hardly anything that the buck can do which does not seem to you to prove that it is wounded. it bounds into the air, races off suddenly, or goes away quite slowly; it switches its tail or shakes its head; it stops to look back, or does not stop at all; the spoor looks awkward and scrappy; the rust on the grass looks like dry blood. if you start with a theory instead of weighing the evidence all these things will help to prove that theory: they will, in fact, mean exactly what you want them to mean. you ‘put up a job on yerself’—to quote rocky again—and with the sweat of your brow and vexation of spirit you have to work that job out.
poor old jock had a few hard chases after animals which i thought were wounded but were not hit at all—not many, however, for he soon got hold of the right idea and was a better judge than his master. he went off the instant he was sent, but if there was nothing wounded—that is, if he could not pick up a ‘blood spoor’—he would soon show it by casting across the trail, instead of following hard on it; and i knew then there was nothing in it. often he would come back of his own accord, and there was something quite peculiar in his look when he returned from these wild-goose chases that seemed to say, “no good: you were quite wrong. you missed the whole lot of them.” he would come up to me with his mouth wide-open and tongue out, a bit blown, and stand still with his front legs wide apart, looking up at me with that nothing-in-it sort of look in his eyes and not a movement in his ears or tail and never a turn of his head to show the least interest in anything else. i got to know that look quite well; and to me it meant, “well, that job was a failure—finished and done for. now is there anything else you can think of?”
what always seemed to me so curious and full of meaning was that he never once looked back in the direction of the unwounded game, but seemed to put them out of his mind altogether as of no further interest. it was very different when he got on to the trail of a wounded buck and i had to call him off, as was sometimes necessary when the chase looked hopeless or it was too late to go further. he would obey, of course—no amount of excitement made him forget that; but he would follow me in a sort of sideways trot, looking back over his shoulder all the time, and whenever there was a stop, turning right round and staring intently in the direction of the game with his little tail moving steadily from side to side and his hind legs crouched as if ready to spring off the instant he got permission.
twice i thought he was lost for ever through following wounded game. the first occasion was also the first time that we got among the impala and saw them in numbers. there is no more beautiful and fascinating sight than that of a troop of impala or springbuck really on the move and jumping in earnest. the height and distance that they clear is simply incredible. the impala’s greater size and its delicate spiral horns give it a special distinction; the springbuck’s brilliant white and red, and the divided crest which fans out along the spine when it is excited, are unique. but who can say which of the many beautiful antelopes is the most beautiful? the oldest hunter will tell you of first one, then another, and then another, as they come to mind, just as he saw them in some supreme unforgettable moment; and each at that moment has seemed quite the most beautiful animal in the world.
it is when they are jumping that the impala are seen at their best. no one knows what they really can do, for there are no fences in their country by which to judge or guess, and as they run in herds it is practically impossible ever to find the take-off or landing-place of any single animal. once when hunting along the wenhla mohali river we managed to turn seven of them into an old run ending in a rocky gorge; but suspecting danger they would not face the natural outlet, and turning up the slope cleared a barrier of thick thorn scrub and escaped. when we looked at the place afterwards we found that the bushes were nine feet high. we were not near enough to see whether they touched the tops or cleared them; all we were sure of was that they did not hesitate for a second to face a jump nine feet high at the top of a sharp rise, and that all seven did it in follow-my-leader order with the most perfect ease and grace.
every hunter has seen a whole troop, old and young, following the example of the leader, clear a road or donga twenty feet wide, apparently in an effortless stride. it is a fine sight, and the steady stream of buck makes an arch of red and white bodies over the road looking like the curve of a great wave. you stand and watch in speechless admiration; and the first gasp at a glorious leap is followed by steady silent wonder at the regularity of the numbers. then suddenly you see one animal—for no apparent reason: it may be fright or it may be frolic—take off away back behind the others, shoot up, and sail high above the arch of all the rest, and with head erect and feet comfortably gathered, land far beyond them—the difference between ease and effort, and oh! the perfect grace of both! something is wrung from you—a word, a gasp—and you stand breathless with wonder and admiration until the last one is gone. you have forgotten to shoot; but they have left you something better than a trophy, something which time will only glorify—a picture that in daylight or in dark will fill your mind whenever you hear the name impala.
something of this i carried away from my first experience among them. there were a few minutes of complete bewilderment, a scene of the wildest confusion, and flashes of incident that go to make a great picture which it is impossible to forget. but then there followed many hours of keen anxiety when i believed that jock was gone for ever; and it was long before that day found its place in the gallery of happy memories.
we had gone out after breakfast, striking well away from the main road until we got among the thicker thorns where there was any amount of fresh spoor and we were quite certain to find a troop sooner or later. the day was so still, the ground so dry, and the bush so thick that the chances were the game would hear us before we could get near enough to see them. several times i heard sounds of rustling bush or feet cantering away: something had heard us and made off unseen; so i dropped down into the sandy bed of a dry donga and used it as a stalking trench. from this it was easy enough to have a good look around every hundred yards or so without risk of being heard or seen. we had been going along cautiously in this way for some time when, peering over the bank, i spied a single impala half hidden by a scraggy bush. it seemed queer that there should be only one, as their habit is to move in troops; but there was nothing else to be seen; indeed it was only the flicker of an ear on this one that had caught my eye. nothing else in the land moved.
jock climbed the bank also, following so closely that he bumped against my heels, and when i lay flat actually crawled over my legs to get up beside me and see what was on. little by little he got into the way of imitating all i did, so that after a while it was hardly necessary to say a word or make a sign to him. he lay down beside me and raised his head to look just as he saw me do. he was all excitement, trembling like a wet spaniel on a cold day, and instead of looking steadily at the impala as i was doing and as he usually did, he was looking here there and everywhere; it seemed almost as if he was looking at things—not for them. it was my comfortable belief at the moment that he had not yet spotted the buck, but was looking about anxiously to find out what was interesting me. it turned out, as usual, that he had seen a great deal more than his master had.
the stalking looked very easy, as a few yards further up the donga there was excellent cover in some dense thorns, behind which we could walk boldly across open ground to within easy range of the buck and get a clear shot. we reached the cover all right, but i had not taken three steps into the open space beyond before there was a rushing and scrambling on every side of me. the place was a whirlpool of racing and plunging impala; they came from every side and went in every direction as though caught suddenly in an enclosure and, mad with fear and bewilderment, were trying to find a way out. how many there were it was quite impossible to say: the bush was alive with them; and the dust they kicked up, the noise of their feet, their curious sneezy snorts, and their wild confusion completely bewildered me. not one stood still. never for a moment could i see any single animal clearly enough or long enough to fire at it; another would cross it; a bush would cover it as i aimed; or it would leap into the air, clearing bushes, bucks and everything in its way, and disappear again in the moving mass. they seemed to me to whirl like leaves in a wind eddy: my eyes could not follow them and my brain swam as i looked.
it was a hot day; there was no breeze at all; and probably the herd had been resting after their morning feed and drink when we came upon them. by creeping up along the donga we had managed to get unobserved right into the middle of the dozing herd, so they were literally on every side of us. at times it looked as if they were bound to stampede over us and simply trample us down in their numbers; for in their panic they saw nothing, and not one appeared to know what or where the danger was. time and again, as for part of a second i singled one out and tried to aim, others would come racing straight for us, compelling me to switch round to face them, only to find them swerve with a dart or a mighty bound when within a few paces of me.
what jock was doing during that time i do not know. it was all such a whirl of excitement and confusion that there are only a few clear impressions left on my mind. one is of a buck coming through the air right at me, jumping over the backs of two others racing across my front. i can see now the sudden wriggle of its body and the look of terror in its eyes when it saw me and realised that it was going to land almost at my feet. i tried to jump aside, but it was not necessary: with one touch on the ground it shot slantingly past me like a ricochet bullet. another picture that always comes back is that of a splendid ram clearing the first of the dense thorn bushes that were to have been my cover in stalking. he flew over it outlined against the sky in the easiest most graceful and most perfect curve imaginable. it came back to me afterwards that he was eight or ten yards from me, and yet i had to look up into the sky to see his white chest and gracefully gathered feet as he cleared the thorn bush like a soaring bird.
one shot, out of three or four fired in desperation as they were melting away, hit something; the unmistakable thud of the bullet told me so. that time it was the real thing, and when you hear the real thing you cannot mistake it. the wounded animal went off with the rest and i followed, with jock ahead of me hot on the trail. a hundred yards further on where jock with his nose to the ground had raced along between some low stones and a marula tree i came to a stop—bush all round me, not a living thing in sight, and all as silent as the grave. on one of the smooth hot stones there was a big drop of blood, and a few yards on i found a couple more. here and there along the spoor there were smears on the long yellow grass, and it was clear enough, judging by the height of the blood-marks from the ground, that the impala was wounded in the body—probably far back, as there were no frothy bubbles to show a lung shot. i knew that it would be a long chase unless jock could head the buck off and bay it; but unless he could do this at once, he was so silent in his work that there was little chance of finding him. the trail became more and more difficult to follow; the blood was less frequent, and the hot sun dried it so quickly that it was more than i could do to pick it out from the red streaks on the grass and many-coloured leaves. so i gave it up and sat down to smoke and wait.
half an hour passed, and still no jock. then i wandered about whistling and calling for him—calling until the sound of my own voice became quite uncanny, the only sound in an immense silence. two hours passed in useless calling and listening, searching and waiting, and then i gave it up altogether and made back for the waggons, trying to hope against my real conviction that jock had struck the road somewhere and had followed it to the outspan, instead of coming back on his own trail through the bush to me.
but there was no jock at the waggons; and my heart sank, although i was not surprised. it was nearly four hours since he had disappeared, and it was as sure as anything could be that something extraordinary must have happened or he would have come back to me long before this. no one at the waggons had seen him since we started out together; and there was nothing to be done but to wait and see what would happen. it was perfectly useless to look for him: if alive and well, he was better able to find his way than the best tracker that ever lived; if dead or injured and unable to move, there was not one chance in a million of finding him.
there was only one kaffir whom jock would take any notice of or would allow to touch him—a great big zulu named jim makokel’. jim was one of the real fighting zulu breed; and the pride he took in jock, and the sort of partnership that he claimed in tastes, disposition and exploits, began the day jock fought the table-leg and grew stronger and stronger to the end. jim became jock’s devoted champion, and more than once, as will be seen, showed that he would face man or beast to stand by him when he needed help.
this day when i returned to the waggons jim was sitting with the other drivers in the group round the big pot of porridge. i saw him give one quick look my way and heard him say sharply to the others, “where is the dog? where is jock?” he stood there looking at me with a big wooden spoon full of porridge stopped on the way to his mouth. in a few minutes they all knew what had happened; the other boys took it calmly, saying composedly that the dog would find his way back. but jim was not calm: it was not his nature. at one moment he would agree with them, swamping them with a flood of reasons why jock, the best dog in the world, would be sure to come back; and the next—hot with restless excitement—would picture all that the dog might have been doing and all that he might still have to face, and then break off to proclaim loudly that every one ought to go out and hunt for him. jim was not practical or reasonable—he was too excitable for that; but he was very loyal, and it was his way to show his feelings by doing something—generally and preferably by fighting some one. knowing only too well how useless it would be to search for jock, i lay down under the waggon to rest and wait.
after half an hour of this jim could restrain himself no longer. he came over to where i lay and with a look of severe disapproval and barely controlled indignation, asked me for a gun, saying that he himself meant to go out and look for jock. it would be nearer the mark to say that he demanded a gun. he was so genuinely anxious and so indignant at what he considered my indifference that it was impossible to be angry; and i let him talk away to me and at me in his exciting bullying way. he would take no answer and listen to no reason; so finally to keep him quiet i gave him the shot gun, and off he went, muttering his opinions of every one else—a great springy striding picture of fierce resolution.
he came back nearly three hours later, silent, morose, hot and dusty. he put the gun down beside me without a word—just a click of disgust; and as he strode across to his waggon, called roughly to one of the drivers for the drinking water. lifting the bucket to his mouth he drank like an ox and slammed it down again without a word of thanks; then sat down in the shade of the waggon, filled his pipe, and smoked in silence.
the trekking hour came and passed; but we did not move. the sun went down, and in the quiet of the evening we heard the first jackal’s yapping—the first warning of the night. there were still lions and tigers in those parts, and any number of hyenas and wild dogs, and the darker it grew and the more i thought of it, the more hopeless seemed jock’s chance of getting through a night in the bush trying to work his way back to the waggons.
it was almost dark when i was startled by a yell from jim makokel’, and looking round, saw him bound out into the road shouting, “he has come, he has come! what did i tell you?” he ran out to jock, stooping to pat and talk to him, and then in a lower voice and with growing excitement went on rapidly, “see the blood! see it! he has fought: he has killed! dog of all dogs! jock, jock!” and his savage song of triumph broke off in a burst of rough tenderness, and he called the dog’s name five or six times with every note of affection and welcome in his deep voice. jock took no notice of jim’s dancing out to meet him, nor of his shouts, endearments and antics; slowing his tired trot down to a walk, he came straight on to me, flickered his ears a bit, wagged his tail cordially, and gave my hand a splashy lick as i patted him. then he turned round in the direction he had just come from, looked steadily out, cocked his ears well up, and moved his tail slowly from side to side. for the next half-hour or so he kept repeating this action every few minutes; but even without that i knew that it had been no wild-goose chase, and that miles away in the bush there was something lying dead which he could show me if i would but follow him back again to see.
what had happened in the eight hours since he had dashed off in pursuit can only be guessed. that he had pulled down the impala and killed it seemed certain—and what a chase and what a fight it must have been to take all that time! the buck could not have been so badly wounded in the body as to be disabled or it would have died in far less time than that: then, what a fight it must have been to kill an animal six or eight times his own weight and armed with such horns and hoofs! but was it only the impala? or had the hyenas and wild dogs followed up the trail, as they so often do, and did jock have to fight his way through them too?
he was hollow-flanked and empty, parched with thirst, and so blown that his breath still caught in suffocating chokes. he was covered with blood and sand; his beautiful golden coat was dark and stained; his white front had disappeared; and there on his chest and throat, on his jaws and ears, down his front legs even to the toes, the blood was caked on him—mostly black and dried but some still red and sticky. he was a little lame in one fore leg, but there was no cut or swelling to show the cause. there was only one mark to be seen: over his right eye there was a bluish line where the hair had been shaved off clean, leaving the skin smooth and unbroken. what did it? was it horn, hoof, tooth, or—what? only jock knew.
hovering round and over me, pacing backwards and forwards between the waggons like a caged animal, jim, growing more and more excited, filled the air with his talk his shouts and savage song. wanting to help, but always in the way, ordering and thrusting the other boys here and there, he worked himself up into a wild frenzy: the zulu fighting blood on fire and he ‘saw red’ everywhere.
i called for water. “water!” roared jim, “bring water”; and glaring round he made a spring—stick in hand—at the nearest kaffir. the boy fled in terror, with jim after him for a few paces, and brought a bucket of water. jim snatched it from him and with a resounding thump on the ribs sent the unlucky kaffir sprawling on the ground. jock took the water in great gulpy bites broken by pauses to get his breath again; and jim paced up and down—talking, talking, talking! talking to me, to the others, to the kaffirs, to jock, to the world at large, to the heavens, and to the dead. his eyes glared like a wild beast’s and gradually little seams of froth gathered in the corners of his mouth as he poured out his cataract of words, telling of all jock had done and might have done and would yet do; comparing him with the fighting heroes of his own race, and wandering off into vivid recitals of single episodes and great battles; seizing his sticks, shouting his war cries, and going through all the mimicry of fight with the wild frenzy of one possessed. time after time i called him and tried to quiet him; but he was beyond control.
once before he had broken out like this. i had asked him something about the zulu war; and that had started a flood of memories and excitement. in the midst of some description i asked why they killed the children; and he turned his glaring eyes on me a and said, “inkos, you are my inkos; but you are white. if we fight to-morrow, i will kill you. you are good to me, you have saved me; but if our own king says ‘kill!’ we kill! we see red; we kill all that lives. i must kill you, your wife, your mother, your children, your horses, your oxen, your dog, the fowls that run with the waggons—all that lives i kill. the blood must run.” and i believed him; for that was the zulu fighting spirit. so this time i knew it was useless to order or to talk: he was beyond control, and the fit must run its course.
the night closed in and there was quiet once more. the flames of the camp fires had died down; the big thorn logs had burnt into glowing coals like the pink crisp hearts of giant water-melons; jock lay sleeping, tired out, but even in his sleep came little spells of panting now and then, like the after-sobs of a child that has cried itself to sleep; we lay rolled in our blankets, and no sound came from where the kaffirs slept. but jim—only jim—sat on his rough three-legged stool, elbows on knees and hands clasped together, staring intently into the coals. the fit worked slowly off, and his excitement died gradually away; now and then there was a fresh burst, but always milder and at longer intervals, as you may see it in a dying fire or at the end of a great storm; slowly but surely he subsided until at last there were only occasional mutterings of “ow, jock!” followed by the zulu click, the expressive shake of the head, and that appreciative half grunt, half chuckle, by which they pay tribute to what seems truly wonderful. he wanted no sleep that night: he sat on, waiting for the morning trek, staring into the red coals, and thinking of the bygone glories of his race in the days of the mighty chaka.
that was jim, when the fit was on him—transported by some trifling and unforeseen incident from the hum-drum of the road to the life he once had lived with splendid recklessness.
