‘We’ll go back and get the trucks,’ Hunt said. ‘Colonel, you might stay here and keep watch. But mind you, no more shooting. You might make a mistake and hit it this time.’
To get the cars to the river it was necessary for the Africans to hack the hippo path wider with their bush-knives. The largest truck carried a cage eighteen feet long, made of stout two-by-fours reinforced by iron bars.
The young bull hippo was now in deeper water. Only the top of his head was above the surface. He could still hear, see, and breathe, because a hippo’s ears, eyes, and nostrils are not on the front and sides of his head, but on top.
If he wished to go completely under water he could do so quite easily. His eyes remained open, but large valves closed his ears and nostrils. Taking a deep breath before going down, he could stay there from six to ten minutes.
‘He’s really wonderfully made,’ John Hunt said. ‘Not only can he stay submerged three times as long as the best human diver, but he can walk along the bottom, eating water-weeds as he goes.’
‘He doesn’t seem too friendly,’ Hal said.
‘You can’t expect an animal that has just been shot at to be friendly.’
The hippo snorted angrily, then opened his great red mouth and let out a bellow that echoed back from the hills like thunder. Colonel Bigg shivered and kept well behind his companions.
The cage truck was backed up to the shore and a ramp placed, up which the animal might be hauled into the cage. A two-inch nylon rope of great tensile strength was made fast to a powerful four-wheel-drive truck directly in front of the cage truck. The loose end of this cable was drawn back through the cage and down to the water, where it was finished off with a loop large enough to go over the hippo’s head.
‘But how are you going to get the hippo to put his head in the noose?’ Roger wondered.
‘We’ll have to help him do that,’ his father said. ‘Joro, bring one of those canoes.’ He pointed to native boats drawn up on the shore. ‘We’ll paddle out and take the noose with us.’
The canoe was brought, and the Hunts along with Joro boarded it. This left Colonel Bigg and the rest of the Africans on the bank. The colonel declined an invitation to join the boating party.
‘I think I’d better stay here and help get the beast ashore,’ he said. ‘You can’t depend upon these blacks. Always fail you just when you need them.’
The canoe was a heavy thing, fashioned from a single log of ironwood, and its gunwale was only two inches above the water. The occupants must be very careful to keep their balance or the craft would upset.
Hal tapped the thick side of the boat with his paddle. ‘There’s one good thing about it,’ he said. ‘Even a hippo’s jaws couldn’t make much of an impression on this.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure,’ Hunt said. ‘Up at Murchison an annoyed hippo took the rear end of a car in its mouth and crushed it like a nut’
‘He’s gone,’ cried Roger. The eyes, ears, and nose had sunk out of sight and only a swirl of water remained where they had disappeared.
‘He seems to be going towards the other bank,’ Hunt said.
‘How can you tell?’ Roger asked.
‘By that line of bubbles. Let’s follow him. Not too much noise with your paddles.’
It was several minutes before the hippo broke the surface, snorting and sending up a column of spray like the spout of a whale. He seemed displeased to find the canoe close by. He promptly sank again. This time no bubbles betrayed his position.
Chapter 7
Canoe, hippo, and croc
The canoe suddenly rose straight up into the air, teetered dangerously for a moment, then slipped off the animal’s back and slumped into the water, the splash wetting everyone aboard. Luckily the canoe did not capsize.
‘Favourite hippo trick,’ Hunt said. ‘He’ll probably try it again.’
‘I never did see his head,’ Hal complained, for he was holding the noose, ready to slip it over the quarry at the first opportunity.
Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed with no sign of the hippo,
‘He couldn’t possibly stay down all that time,’ Hunt said. ‘He must have walked off down-river. That’s strange. I could have sworn he would attack us again, he seemed so angry.’
Roger pointed to some broad water-lily leaves that lay on the surface. ‘What’s going on there?’ The leaves bulged upwards. Something appeared to be hiding beneath them. As the men watched, one leaf slipped, revealing the hippo’s nose. How long had he been concealed there, breathing comfortably, awaiting his chance to attack again?
Two other hippos now broke the surface and glared at the canoe with their great goggle eyes. One of them, evidently a mother, carried a baby hippo on her back. They’re ganging up on us,’ Hunt said.
‘But I thought hippos were supposed to have mild dispositions,’ Hal objected.
‘Generally, yes. But not when they’re shot at. Not when they’re blocked off from water. Not when they’re hunted, and not when they have young ones to protect. I don’t like this situation a bit.’
But there was one who did seem to like it. Hal noticed that Joro’s eyes were shining with an evil light. A sort of snarling smile tightened the African’s lips. He seemed even happier when two crocodiles that had been basking on the shore came off and began lazily circling the boat.
‘I was afraid of that,’ Hunt said. ‘Crocs and hippo often work together. The hippos spill the men out of the boat, then the crocs come in for the kill. Look - the lily pads.’
The leaves no longer bulged upwards but lay flat on the surface. The bull hippo had gone under. The line of bubbles showed his progress. He was coming straight for the boat.
‘Paddle!’ cried Hunt. ‘Let’s get out of his way.’
Three paddles dug into the water to propel the boat forwards. The fourth paddle, Joro’s, also went into action, but in reverse. Powerfully, he was pushing backwards, holding the canoe exactly in the path of the approaching bubbles.
‘Joro!’ shouted Hal. But before he could say more, the water exploded by the canoe and the bull hippo shot straight up into the air until half of his body was out of the water, then brought his forefeet smashing down upon the canoe. Hal, watching his chance, got the noose over the animal’s head just as the capsizing canoe tossed its occupants into the river.
The four struggled to right the canoe. No, only three. Hal observed that Joro was swimming ashore.
He could not understand this. African safari men are not cowards. But Joro was plainly leaving them in the lurch.
There was no time to think about it. The mother hippo had dumped her baby on the river bank and had joined the other two monsters in angry snortings and teeth-clashings, while the two crocodiles, no longer lazy, were swooping closer to the struggling bodies in the water.
It was the bull hippo who put an end to their efforts to right the canoe. His great red jaws opened, his huge teeth glistening in the sunlight closed on the boat, raised it from the water and shook it as a cat shakes a mouse, then crushed it as if it had been an egg-shell. The ironwood canoe, so hard that you couldn’t drive a nail into it, crumpled like paper. Fragments fell to the surface and drifted off.
Roger struck out for shore, Hal close behind, splashing to keep off the crocs. Roger looked back. ‘Where’s Dad?’
Their father was floating face down. They swam back to him, gripped him by either arm and swam him ashore.
Mali and Toto helped them drag the unconscious man out of the river and lay him on the sand. John Hunt opened his eyes to find Hal running his fingers over his chest to see if any ribs were broken.
‘What happened, Dad?’
The bow. Came down on my back. Knocked me out for a minute.’
‘Are you all right now?’
Hunt tried to move. His face twisted with pain. ‘Something wrong back there.’
‘We’ll get you up to camp right away.’
‘Not so fast,’ Hunt said. ‘First I want to see that fellow
safe in his cage. Mali, get going with the forward truck.’
Mali ran to the truck, jumped in, started the engine, and eased the car gently forward. The nylon cable that ran back through the cage to the noose that circled the hippo’s neck slowly tightened.
It was going to be quite a pull. Three tons of hippo wanted to go somewhere else. Mali slipped the gears into four-wheel drive.
‘Easy does it,’ called Hunt. ‘Don’t choke him. Just persuade him.’
The hippo did not seem to know what to make of it. His enemies had gone, and his anger subsided. Something was around his neck, but it was hardly more annoying than a water-weed. He felt himself slowly drawn across the river. Now and then he struggled and when he did, Mali eased up on the pull. When the struggling stopped, the pull began again. At last the young bull found himself waddling up on to the bank.
Now he faced the ramp slanting up to the open cage on the truck. This was enough to make any animal nervous. He began to toss his head and bellow. ‘Give him the gun,’ said Hunt.
Hal knew what his father meant. He took the syringe-gun from under the driver’s seat of the truck. It looked like a pistol but it contained no bullets. Instead, it was loaded with a capsule of curare. This is a medicine that can be deadly if too much is used. But a moderate amount shot into an animal only quiets the beast, makes it sleepy, and easy to manage.
Hal placed the muzzle against the hippo’s thigh and pulled the trigger. The hippo snorted with surprise, pulled at his noose, and performed a heavy dance on the beach. Since no one did anything more to him, he soon calmed down and the men waited patiently for the drug to take effect. After ten minutes the bull’s head began to droop as if his huge jaws were getting too heavy for him.
‘Go ahead, Mali,’ said Hunt.
Mali started his truck and the line through the cage drew taut. The animal yielded as if in a trance. Sleepily he gave in to the pull of the cable and with slow steps went up the slight slant of the ramp into the cage. The cage door was quietly closed behind him.
Hunt tried to get up but sank back with a groan. Hal and Roger, with the willing help of the Africans, picked him up, carried him to the forward truck and laid him on the boards. Then both trucks drove through the hippo tunnel back to camp, very slowly so as not to jolt either the disabled man or the caged animal. Hunt was laid on his cot in his tent. Hal bent anxiously over him.
‘It’s my back,’ Hunt said. ‘Slipped disc or bunged-up nerves or something - makes all my left side numb.’
‘I think I’d better go and get a doctor,’ Hal said.
Hunt grinned. ‘You talk as if you’d find one just round the corner. I don’t need a doctor. I know what he’d tell me to do. He’d tell me to rest - and perhaps have a little massage. Mali can give me that. He’s good at it. I’m sorry to poop out on you this way. If I know these back ailments, it may take a week or two for me to get on my feet. During that time, I’m afraid you’ll have to go it alone.’
‘Don’t worry about that, Dad. Give me your order-sheets so that I’ll know what animals are wanted - then we’ll go and get them.’
‘I know you will. I’m not worried about that. But there’s something else.’
He closed his eyes. Hal waited. ‘What is it?’ he said finally.
‘I hate to bother you with this,’ his father said, ‘but it’s something you should know. That leopard-man who tried to lead us away from the trail of the leopard last night - I think I know who it was.’
‘Someone from the village?’
‘No. Someone from our own camp.’
Hal, greatly surprised, objected. ‘Now, Dad, that’s not possible. None of our men would do that. Besides, we know where every man was. They’re all accounted for.’
‘Except one,’ said Hunt ‘How about Joro?’
‘Well, what about him? You told him to go along with us, but he misunderstood. He stayed in camp.’
‘The cook tells me he was not in camp last night. This morning, while it was still quite dark, I saw him creep out of the bushes to his tent. Later, I talked with him. He was very nervous. What he said didn’t ring true. He seemed to be a man in torture, torn this way and that. I wanted him to tell me what was troubling him, but he would not, I strongly suspect he was the leopard-man.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ Hal said. ‘Joro is a fine man, and a wonderful tracker.’
‘Agreed. But didn’t you notice anything strange when we were trying to get out of the way of that hippo? We were paddling forwards. What was Joro doing?’
‘It was a bit peculiar,’ Hal admitted. ‘He seemed to be paddling backwards. Perhaps he thought we stood a better chance of escape if we backed up.’
I’d like to believe that,’ his father said. ‘But I’m afraid he was trying to hold the canoe just where it would be struck by the hippo. To put it plainly, it looked as if he wanted us to be dumped and hoped we would be drowned or killed by the hippos, or the crocs, or both.’
‘But he was putting himself in danger too.’
‘Didn’t you see how fast he got himself out of danger? We stayed to try to right the canoe. Did he help us?’
Hal tried to remember. ‘Now that I think of it, he didn’t. He set out for the shore as fast as he could go.’
‘Right. And when we got ashore, he looked angry and disappointed. His plot had failed. But mark my words, he’ll try again.’
‘But why in the world should he want to kill us?’
‘I don’t think he does want to. But that’s what he’s trying to do.’
Hal looked puzzled. ‘Dad, your bump must have affected your brain. You contradict yourself. You say he wants to and doesn’t want to. Does that make sense?’
‘It makes African sense. It makes Leopard Society sense. This isn’t London. It’s the Dark Continent, and it’s still pretty dark, believe me. A couple of dozen African countries have become independent during the last few years, and they have parliaments and presidents and delegates to the United Nations, and they are making a lot of progress and we hope the best for them. But that must not blind us to the fact that outside the cities, away back in these forests, life is just about as savage as it was a hundred years ago. There are still thousands of cannibals in the African jungle. Ninety per cent of black Africans have never been inside a school. They blame everything on the white man. You’ve heard of the Mau Mau - the secret society that makes its members promise to kill whites. It was at its worst in 1952 but popped up again in 1958, and now it has become more secret than ever and is likely to go on as long as there are white men in East Africa holding land that the blacks think should belong to them. More than twenty thousand people have been killed by this society. Most of the killers don’t want to kill - the society makes them.’
‘How can they make them want to do what they don’t want to do?’
‘Simple. They grab a black man and tell him he will be tortured to death unless he takes an oath to kill whites. If he objects, they begin the torture. When he gives in, they make him take an oath to kill, and to make him remember the oath he must eat a dinner of human brains, blood, sheep’s eyes, and dirt.’
‘And the Leopard Society?’
‘Like the Mau Mau, but very much older. The Society seizes a good man and makes a bad man out of him. He must promise to kill. He is given a leopard suit and told he can change into a leopard and must defend all leopards. The heads of the Society are usually witchdoctors. Africans have a deadly fear of witchdoctors and will do anything they tell them to do. If the new member will not promise to kill, he himself and his wife and children are killed. So what can the poor man do? He is caught in a trap.’
‘And you think Joro has been pledged to kill us?’
It certainly looks that way.’
‘Then we’d better fire him, at once. I’ll take care of it.’
‘Not so fast, Hal. As you said, he’s a good man and a good tracker. We need him. What’s more, he needs us. He needs somebody to get him out of this horrible tra
p they’ve got him into. Now I know it’s risky to have a man around who’s bent on killing us. But we’ve run risks bigger than that. Now that we know what to look out for, I’m sure we can take care of ourselves. Tell Roger. And both of you, watch your step.’ ‘But just what do you hope to accomplish?’ 1 don’t know yet,’ Hunt admitted. ‘Somehow, a way may open up. In the meantime, carry on with Joro as usual. He must not suspect that we know.’
Hal went out, shaking his head. He respected his father’s desire to help Joro. But wasn’t it pretty dangerous to try to help a man who was out to murder you?
Chapter 8
The colonel dances
Hal counted his troubles.
Some other time he would count his blessings, but just now he was counting his troubles. Number one was his father’s accident. Number two was the responsibility that had fallen upon him to take charge of the animal-collecting. Number three was the leopard-man. Number four was Colonel Bigg.
The first thing he saw as he came out of his father’s tent was. the colonel, posing for a photograph. He had interrupted the men who had been skinning the leopard. The dead animal lay stretched on the grass. Colonel Bigg stood, gun in hand, one foot on the leopard’s head. Mali was holding a small camera.
‘You are just in time,’ the colonel said to Hal. ‘Take the camera. Mali is not such a good photographer. It’s all set - just get me in the view-finder, then press the trigger.’
‘But what’s the-idea?’ asked Hal, quite puzzled.
Must a picture. Being a White Hunter, I have to have a few pictures. Just to show I can kill leopards and things.’
‘But you didn’t kill this leopard.’
‘What of it? I might have done.’
‘But you’re claiming credit for something you didn’t do’
‘Oh, I see, you’re jealous, young man. You killed the leopard and you think you did something great. Why, I’ve killed hundreds of leopards, thousands. Just didn’t happen to have a camera with me. Now I have the camera and here’s a leopard, and what does it matter whether it’s one of mine or not? Tell you what I’ll do - you take a shot of me, and I’ll take one of you. That way well divide the credit, fifty-fifty. That’s fair enough, isn’t it?’
06 African Adventure Page 5
