CHAPTER IV.

AN ELEPHANT HUNT

Now I do not propose to narrate at full length all the incidents of our

long travel up to Sitanda’s Kraal, near the junction of the Lukanga and

Kalukwe Rivers. It was a journey of more than a thousand miles from

Durban, the last three hundred or so of which we had to make on foot,

owing to the frequent presence of the dreadful “tsetse” fly, whose bite

is fatal to all animals except donkeys and men.

We left Durban at the end of January, and it was in the second week of

May that we camped near Sitanda’s Kraal. Our adventures on the way were

many and various, but as they are of the sort which befall every

African hunter—with one exception to be presently detailed—I shall not

set them down here, lest I should render this history too wearisome.

At Inyati, the outlying trading station in the Matabele country, of

which Lobengula (a great and cruel scoundrel) is king, with many

regrets we parted from our comfortable wagon. Only twelve oxen remained

to us out of the beautiful span of twenty which I had bought at Durban.

One we lost from the bite of a cobra, three had perished from “poverty”

and the want of water, one strayed, and the other three died from

eating the poisonous herb called “tulip.” Five more sickened from this

cause, but we managed to cure them with doses of an infusion made by

boiling down the tulip leaves. If administered in time this is a very

effective antidote.

The wagon and the oxen we left in the immediate charge of Goza and Tom,

our driver and leader, both trustworthy boys, requesting a worthy

Scotch missionary who lived in this distant place to keep an eye on

them. Then, accompanied by Umbopa, Khiva, Ventvögel, and half a dozen

bearers whom we hired on the spot, we started off on foot upon our wild

quest. I remember we were all a little silent on the occasion of this

departure, and I think that each of us was wondering if we should ever

see our wagon again; for my part I never expected to do so. For a while

we tramped on in silence, till Umbopa, who was marching in front, broke

into a Zulu chant about how some brave men, tired of life and the

tameness of things, started off into a vast wilderness to find new

things or die, and how, lo and behold! when they had travelled far into

the wilderness they found that it was not a wilderness at all, but a

beautiful place full of young wives and fat cattle, of game to hunt and

enemies to kill.

Then we all laughed and took it for a good omen. Umbopa was a cheerful

savage, in a dignified sort of way, when he was not suffering from one

of his fits of brooding, and he had a wonderful knack of keeping up our

spirits. We all grew very fond of him.

And now for the one adventure to which I am going to treat myself, for

I do dearly love a hunting yarn.

About a fortnight’s march from Inyati we came across a peculiarly

beautiful bit of well-watered woodland country. The kloofs in the hills

were covered with dense bush, “idoro” bush as the natives call it, and

in some places, with the “wacht-een-beche,” or “wait-a-little thorn,”

and there were great quantities of the lovely “machabell” tree, laden

with refreshing yellow fruit having enormous stones. This tree is the

elephant’s favourite food, and there were not wanting signs that the

great brutes had been about, for not only was their spoor frequent, but

in many places the trees were broken down and even uprooted. The

elephant is a destructive feeder.

One evening, after a long day’s march, we came to a spot of great

loveliness. At the foot of a bush-clad hill lay a dry river-bed, in

which, however, were to be found pools of crystal water all trodden

round with the hoof-prints of game. Facing this hill was a park-like

plain, where grew clumps of flat-topped mimosa, varied with occasional

glossy-leaved machabells, and all round stretched the sea of pathless,

silent bush.

As we emerged into this river-bed path suddenly we started a troop of

tall giraffes, who galloped, or rather sailed off, in their strange

gait, their tails screwed up over their backs, and their hoofs rattling

like castanets. They were about three hundred yards from us, and

therefore practically out of shot, but Good, who was walking ahead, and

who had an express loaded with solid ball in his hand, could not resist

temptation. Lifting his gun, he let drive at the last, a young cow. By

some extraordinary chance the ball struck it full on the back of the

neck, shattering the spinal column, and that giraffe went rolling head

over heels just like a rabbit. I never saw a more curious thing.

“Curse it!” said Good—for I am sorry to say he had a habit of using

strong language when excited—contracted, no doubt, in the course of his

nautical career; “curse it! I’ve killed him.”

“_Ou_, Bougwan,” ejaculated the Kafirs; “_ou! ou!_”

They called Good “Bougwan,” or Glass Eye, because of his eye-glass.

“Oh, ‘Bougwan!’” re-echoed Sir Henry and I, and from that day Good’s

reputation as a marvellous shot was established, at any rate among the

Kafirs. Really he was a bad one, but whenever he missed we overlooked

it for the sake of that giraffe.

Having set some of the “boys” to cut off the best of the giraffe’s

meat, we went to work to build a “scherm” near one of the pools and

about a hundred yards to its right. This is done by cutting a quantity

of thorn bushes and piling them in the shape of a circular hedge. Then

the space enclosed is smoothed, and dry tambouki grass, if obtainable,

is made into a bed in the centre, and a fire or fires lighted.

By the time the “scherm” was finished the moon peeped up, and our

dinners of giraffe steaks and roasted marrow-bones were ready. How we

enjoyed those marrow-bones, though it was rather a job to crack them! I

know of no greater luxury than giraffe marrow, unless it is elephant’s

heart, and we had that on the morrow. We ate our simple meal by the

light of the moon, pausing at times to thank Good for his wonderful

shot; then we began to smoke and yarn, and a curious picture we must

have made squatting there round the fire. I, with my short grizzled

hair sticking up straight, and Sir Henry with his yellow locks, which

were getting rather long, were rather a contrast, especially as I am

thin, and short, and dark, weighing only nine stone and a half, and Sir

Henry is tall, and broad, and fair, and weighs fifteen. But perhaps the

most curious-looking of the three, taking all the circumstances of the

case into consideration, was Captain John Good, R.N. There he sat upon

a leather bag, looking just as though he had come in from a comfortable

day’s shooting in a civilised country, absolutely clean, tidy, and well

dressed. He wore a shooting suit of brown tweed, with a hat to match,

and neat gaiters. As usual, he was beautifully shaved, his eye-glass

and his false teeth appeared to be in perfect order, and altogether he

looked the neatest man I ever had to do with in the wilderness. He even

sported a collar, of which he had a supply, made of white gutta-percha.

“You see, they weigh so little,” he said to me innocently, when I

expressed my astonishment at the fact; “and I always like to turn out

like a gentleman.” Ah! if he could have foreseen the future and the

raiment prepared for him.

Well, there we three sat yarning away in the beautiful moonlight, and

watching the Kafirs a few yards off sucking their intoxicating “daccha”

from a pipe of which the mouthpiece was made of the horn of an eland,

till one by one they rolled themselves up in their blankets and went to

sleep by the fire, that is, all except Umbopa, who was a little apart,

his chin resting on his hand, and thinking deeply. I noticed that he

never mixed much with the other Kafirs.

Presently, from the depths of the bush behind us, came a loud “_woof_,

_woof_!” “That’s a lion,” said I, and we all started up to listen.

Hardly had we done so, when from the pool, about a hundred yards off,

we heard the strident trumpeting of an elephant. “_Unkungunklovo_!

_Indlovu_!” “Elephant! Elephant!” whispered the Kafirs, and a few

minutes afterwards we saw a succession of vast shadowy forms moving

slowly from the direction of the water towards the bush.

Up jumped Good, burning for slaughter, and thinking, perhaps, that it

was as easy to kill elephant as he had found it to shoot giraffe, but I

caught him by the arm and pulled him down.

“It’s no good,” I whispered, “let them go.”

“It seems that we are in a paradise of game. I vote we stop here a day

or two, and have a go at them,” said Sir Henry, presently.

I was rather surprised, for hitherto Sir Henry had always been for

pushing forward as fast as possible, more especially since we

ascertained at Inyati that about two years ago an Englishman of the

name of Neville _had_ sold his wagon there, and gone on up country. But

I suppose his hunter instincts got the better of him for a while.

Good jumped at the idea, for he was longing to have a shot at those

elephants; and so, to speak the truth, did I, for it went against my

conscience to let such a herd as that escape without a pull at them.

“All right, my hearties,” said I. “I think we want a little recreation.

And now let’s turn in, for we ought to be off by dawn, and then perhaps

we may catch them feeding before they move on.”

The others agreed, and we proceeded to make our preparations. Good took

off his clothes, shook them, put his eye-glass and his false teeth into

his trousers pocket, and folding each article neatly, placed it out of

the dew under a corner of his mackintosh sheet. Sir Henry and I

contented ourselves with rougher arrangements, and soon were curled up

in our blankets, and dropping off into the dreamless sleep that rewards

the traveller.

Going, going, go—What was that?

Suddenly, from the direction of the water came sounds of violent

scuffling, and next instant there broke upon our ears a succession of

the most awful roars. There was no mistaking their origin; only a lion

could make such a noise as that. We all jumped up and looked towards

the water, in the direction of which we saw a confused mass, yellow and

black in colour, staggering and struggling towards us. We seized our

rifles, and slipping on our veldtschoons, that is shoes made of

untanned hide, ran out of the scherm. By this time the mass had fallen,

and was rolling over and over on the ground, and when we reached the

spot it struggled no longer, but lay quite still.

Now we saw what it was. On the grass there lay a sable antelope

bull—the most beautiful of all the African antelopes—quite dead, and

transfixed by its great curved horns was a magnificent black-maned

lion, also dead. Evidently what had happened was this: The sable

antelope had come down to drink at the pool where the lion—no doubt the

same which we had heard—was lying in wait. While the antelope drank,

the lion had sprung upon him, only to be received upon the sharp curved

horns and transfixed. Once before I saw a similar thing happen. Then

the lion, unable to free himself, had torn and bitten at the back and

neck of the bull, which, maddened with fear and pain, had rushed on

until it dropped dead.

As soon as we had examined the beasts sufficiently we called the

Kafirs, and between us managed to drag their carcases up to the scherm.

After that we went in and lay down, to wake no more till dawn.

With the first light we were up and making ready for the fray. We took

with us the three eight-bore rifles, a good supply of ammunition, and

our large water-bottles, filled with weak cold tea, which I have always

found the best stuff to shoot on. After swallowing a little breakfast

we started, Umbopa, Khiva, and Ventvögel accompanying us. The other

Kafirs we left with instructions to skin the lion and the sable

antelope, and to cut up the latter.

We had no difficulty in finding the broad elephant trail, which

Ventvögel, after examination, pronounced to have been made by between

twenty and thirty elephants, most of them full-grown bulls. But the

herd had moved on some way during the night, and it was nine o’clock,

and already very hot, before, by the broken trees, bruised leaves and

bark, and smoking droppings, we knew that we could not be far from

them.

Presently we caught sight of the herd, which numbered, as Ventvögel had

said, between twenty and thirty, standing in a hollow, having finished

their morning meal, and flapping their great ears. It was a splendid

sight, for they were only about two hundred yards from us. Taking a

handful of dry grass, I threw it into the air to see how the wind was;

for if once they winded us I knew they would be off before we could get

a shot. Finding that, if anything, it blew from the elephants to us, we

crept on stealthily, and thanks to the cover managed to get within

forty yards or so of the great brutes. Just in front of us, and

broadside on, stood three splendid bulls, one of them with enormous

tusks. I whispered to the others that I would take the middle one; Sir

Henry covering the elephant to the left, and Good the bull with the big

tusks.

“Now,” I whispered.

Boom! boom! boom! went the three heavy rifles, and down came Sir

Henry’s elephant dead as a hammer, shot right through the heart. Mine

fell on to its knees and I thought that he was going to die, but in

another moment he was up and off, tearing along straight past me. As he

went I gave him the second barrel in the ribs, and this brought him

down in good earnest. Hastily slipping in two fresh cartridges I ran

close up to him, and a ball through the brain put an end to the poor

brute’s struggles. Then I turned to see how Good had fared with the big

bull, which I had heard screaming with rage and pain as I gave mine its

quietus. On reaching the captain I found him in a great state of

excitement. It appeared that on receiving the bullet the bull had

turned and come straight for his assailant, who had barely time to get

out of his way, and then charged on blindly past him, in the direction

of our encampment. Meanwhile the herd had crashed off in wild alarm in

the other direction.

For awhile we debated whether to go after the wounded bull or to follow

the herd, and finally deciding for the latter alternative, departed,

thinking that we had seen the last of those big tusks. I have often

wished since that we had. It was easy work to follow the elephants, for

they had left a trail like a carriage road behind them, crushing down

the thick bush in their furious flight as though it were tambouki

grass.

But to come up with them was another matter, and we had struggled on

under the broiling sun for over two hours before we found them. With

the exception of one bull, they were standing together, and I could

see, from their unquiet way and the manner in which they kept lifting

their trunks to test the air, that they were on the look-out for

mischief. The solitary bull stood fifty yards or so to this side of the

herd, over which he was evidently keeping sentry, and about sixty yards

from us. Thinking that he would see or wind us, and that it would

probably start them off again if we tried to get nearer, especially as

the ground was rather open, we all aimed at this bull, and at my

whispered word, we fired. The three shots took effect, and down he went

dead. Again the herd started, but unfortunately for them about a

hundred yards further on was a nullah, or dried-out water track, with

steep banks, a place very much resembling the one where the Prince

Imperial was killed in Zululand. Into this the elephants plunged, and

when we reached the edge we found them struggling in wild confusion to

get up the other bank, filling the air with their screams, and

trumpeting as they pushed one another aside in their selfish panic,

just like so many human beings. Now was our opportunity, and firing

away as quickly as we could load, we killed five of the poor beasts,

and no doubt should have bagged the whole herd, had they not suddenly

given up their attempts to climb the bank and rushed headlong down the

nullah. We were too tired to follow them, and perhaps also a little

sick of slaughter, eight elephants being a pretty good bag for one day.

So after we were rested a little, and the Kafirs had cut out the hearts

of two of the dead elephants for supper, we started homewards, very

well pleased with our day’s work, having made up our minds to send the

bearers on the morrow to chop away the tusks.

Shortly after we re-passed the spot where Good had wounded the

patriarchal bull we came across a herd of eland, but did not shoot at

them, as we had plenty of meat. They trotted past us, and then stopped

behind a little patch of bush about a hundred yards away, wheeling

round to look at us. As Good was anxious to get a near view of them,

never having seen an eland close, he handed his rifle to Umbopa, and,

followed by Khiva, strolled up to the patch of bush. We sat down and

waited for him, not sorry of the excuse for a little rest.

The sun was just going down in its reddest glory, and Sir Henry and I

were admiring the lovely scene, when suddenly we heard an elephant

scream, and saw its huge and rushing form with uplifted trunk and tail

silhouetted against the great fiery globe of the sun. Next second we

saw something else, and that was Good and Khiva tearing back towards us

with the wounded bull—for it was he—charging after them. For a moment

we did not dare to fire—though at that distance it would have been of

little use if we had done so—for fear of hitting one of them, and the

next a dreadful thing happened—Good fell a victim to his passion for

civilised dress. Had he consented to discard his trousers and gaiters

like the rest of us, and to hunt in a flannel shirt and a pair of

veldt-schoons, it would have been all right. But as it was, his

trousers cumbered him in that desperate race, and presently, when he

was about sixty yards from us, his boot, polished by the dry grass,

slipped, and down he went on his face right in front of the elephant.

We gave a gasp, for we knew that he must die, and ran as hard as we

could towards him. In three seconds it had ended, but not as we

thought. Khiva, the Zulu boy, saw his master fall, and brave lad as he

was, turned and flung his assegai straight into the elephant’s face. It

stuck in his trunk.

With a scream of pain, the brute seized the poor Zulu, hurled him to

the earth, and placing one huge foot on to his body about the middle,

twined its trunk round his upper part and _tore him in two_.

We rushed up mad with horror, and fired again and again, till presently

the elephant fell upon the fragments of the Zulu.

As for Good, he rose and wrung his hands over the brave man who had

given his life to save him, and, though I am an old hand, I felt a lump

grow in my throat. Umbopa stood contemplating the huge dead elephant

and the mangled remains of poor Khiva.

“Ah, well,” he said presently, “he is dead, but he died like a man!”