Major Mills caught Sir Gardnor’s eye for a moment and tried to smile back understandingly.
‘Folklore, sir,’ he suggested.
Sir Gardnor smiled, and shrugged his shoulders.
‘Well, we shall soon know, shan’t we?’ he asked. He paused. ‘Of course, it’s entirely up to you two gentlemen whether you decide to come with me. From the point of view of the leopard, we’re all in it together: all equally guilty if he wants to punish us.’
They were walking back into the camp by now: after the quiet and solitude of the acacia grove, everything around them was all bustle and activity. And it was no longer African air that they were smelling. It was the air of England. Coming from the kitchen was the reassuring odour of coffee and fried bacon.
‘I suppose,’ Sir Gardnor was saying, ‘it may have been a spirit buffalo that came down on top of our friend here. Perhaps he’s had punishment enough already.’ There was the smile again, the little laugh. ‘This time it’ll be you and me, Major, that the spirits are after.’
Major Mills cocked his head a little.
‘I’m ready to take my chance, sir,’ he said.
Sir Gardnor looked at him approvingly.
‘Out here one has to, doesn’t one?’ he asked. ‘But those fellows believe their story all right. Apparently, you can detect a human leopard by the way it kills. It uses its claws rather than its teeth. Handling the victim, you might say. One of the hunters has actually watched it at work. Really quite remarkable.’
They had reached the breakfast table by now, and Sir Gardnor sat himself down at the head.
‘There appears to be one other sign,’ he added. ‘It’s something to do with the spoor. A spirit spoor, you understand. Turns up in the most unexpected places.’ He looked across at his A.D.C. who had just joined them. ‘Remind me to bring Native Affairs along with us next time, will you?’ he asked. ‘After all, he really speaks these languages. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten half my Kiburru.’
The place of sacrifice had already been selected. It was a clearing some fifty yards across, surrounded by a backcloth of bushes and with a particularly fine baobab tree, left centre. The hunters pointed to a gap on the far side, and became very excited. It was no ordinary gap, they declared: it was more a porch, a gateway. From it, practically nightly, the leopards emerged, sometimes singly, sometimes as a pair. The baobab tree, in fact, stood slap across their favourite cat-walk.
‘It’s a point on which I’ve always insisted,’ Sir Gardnor told them. ‘I refuse to hunt the other way. No sportsman would ever dream of shooting a leopard up a tree in India, so why attempt it here? The proper place for the hunter is on a raised platform. So that he can see what he’s doing. I don’t want to risk hurting the animal.’
It was in the fork of the main branch, Sir Gardnor explained, that he wanted the platform to be built. The specifications were lavish and exact. The platform was to hold three, at least; and in comfort. The ladder leading up to it could be a simple rope one, he conceded. There was to be ample room for guns, supplies and ammunition; and, above all, they were to take special care with the mosquito netting. Sir Gardnor did not want to be eaten up alive, he said, while they were still waiting.
It was already obvious that Sir Gardnor was preparing for a long and exacting vigil up there in his little Wendy-house. And as the project grew—Sir Gardnor had only just remembered the necessity for a stout three-foot handrail—Major Mills kept adding in his mind to the size of the task force that he would have to detail for such an operation.
Then, like a fast bowler pacing out his run, Sir Gardnor slowly and deliberately took fifty steps from the tree-trunk. He looked back over his shoulder to the point where the branch forked, and shifted across a little to his right. He took one more step forward, and looked back again. This time he seemed satisfied. With his heel, he hacked out a divot.
‘Here, exactly here,’ he announced, ‘is where we will have the stake.’
The Kiburru hunters looked on admiringly: it was all gibberish to them, but they were enjoying it just the same.
Sir Gardnor beckoned to Major Mills.
‘You’ll want to make a good job of it, I’m sure,’ he said. ‘Shall we say Monday night, then? Your men won’t mind working right through, will they? I understand the kid can be available at any time.’
Lady Anne had been quite right: private conversations were impossible on safari. She and Sybil Prosser came to the long table for meals; they sat around on the camp chairs afterwards, listening to Major Mills’s gramophone; and they took part in Major Mills’s makeshift religious service on Sunday morning. Harold and Lady Anne had been within speaking distance a dozen times or more; but so, also, had too many other people. It was not until sundown on the Monday, when the party was actually setting off for the baobab tree, that Lady Anne spoke directly to him; and, even then, they were not entirely alone.
The procession was quite a large one. Sir Gardnor and the A.D.C. were in front. They were followed by the bearers, with the guns and the ammunition. Then came Harold and Major Mills, with two kitchen boys carrying the supper picnic that Old Moses had prepared. Behind them, the camp carpenter had brought along his assistant in case there were any last minute touches that were needed. And, in the rear, came a solitary Kiburru huntsman: his companion, it was understood, was down in Kitu arranging the final details about the kid.
They were almost past the entrance to Lady Anne’s tent when she saw them. And she ran out immediately. The carpenter from the South Staffs had to step back so that she could pass him.
She stood in front of Harold, and put her hand on his arm.
‘Do be careful,’ she said. ‘Very, very careful.’ She paused, and Harold thought for a moment that he had detected that familiar tell-tale catch in her voice. He was sure of it when she suddenly added: ‘Just for my sake.’
Major Mills had not moved. He stood there, eyes front, looking after the retreating figures of Sir Gardnor and his A.D.C. It was not his affair, he told himself; and he was not going to get mixed up in it.
Lady Anne, however, seemed determined to involve him.
‘You’ll look after him, won’t you, Major?’ she asked. ‘You won’t let anything happen.’
Then she ran the back of her hand across her forehead as though she were trying to brush something away.
‘Oh, I was forgetting,’ she said. ‘You won’t even be there, will you? You’ll be back here protecting all of us.’
While she was speaking, Sybil Prosser had come hurrying across to them, her lean arms flapping. Lady Anne turned to see her standing there.
‘Oh, you needn’t worry about me, Sybil,’ she told her. ‘I haven’t said anything. I’m not the least bit tiddly. I was just wishing the boys good-bye.’
Chapter 23
The preparations for the kill were proceeding with all the marks of really first-class staff work.
The picnic supper, now finished, had been excellent; Major Mills’s mosquito netting fitted perfectly—though, as Sir Gardnor pointed out, no one had given a thought to the gaps between the planking that they were squatting on. And the rope-ladder—advertised in Chandra’s European Bazaar back in Amimbo as an indispensable fire-accessory for all two-storey buildings—had at last been hauled up and stowed away.
It seemed to Harold that they might just as well have eaten their meal in the comfort of their canvas chairs back in camp.
But Sir Gardnor must have read his mind. ‘You’re finding the wait rather tedious?’ he asked. ‘I’m afraid its unavoidable.’ He paused, and seemed to be searching for an illustration sufficiently simple for Harold to be able to understand. ‘You see,’ he said at last, ‘the jungle is like a pool. When we white men enter, we disturb it. We cause ripples. Break the calm, as it were. It’s simply a matter of allowing the surface to become placid again.’
He pointed in the direction of the clearing on the far side.
‘That kind of thing doesn’t count. It’s all part of the
place. It doesn’t affect the tranquillity.’
Above the low bushes, Harold could see the head and shoulders of a native herdsman. His flock of lean and sinewy goats was following, urged on by two boys with long sticks. There was a ceaseless whack-whack as the sticks fell. The goats, however, were thoroughly used to it. Moving off in twos and threes to snatch mouthfuls of the ragged grass that grew beside the pathway, they lingered, waiting for the blow to fall, before beginning to move on again.
Then Harold saw that the native herdsman was carrying something. It was a kid, held nestling in his arms. He was a large man, the herdsman, and the whiteness of the kid showed up against the broad black expanse of his bosom.
The Kiburru hunter got up off his haunches and went over to meet the herdsman. They were joined a moment later by the second hunter who was leading a goat of his own. It was a lively animal, dun-coloured like the rest, and kept putting its head down when anyone approached. This seemed to provoke the herdsman. He lifted the kid from his bosom and set it down on its four feet to show that it could stand. Not satisfied that the demonstration had been conclusive, he kicked it over a couple of times to show that it could even get up again. Then, so as not to tire it, he took the kid back to his bosom again, and the bargaining began.
Sir Gardnor smiled indulgently.
‘It’s always the same,’ he said. ‘Always this everlasting haggling. I can’t imagine where that other goat came from. It must be some kind of private transaction, wouldn’t you say?’
In the end it was the bleating of the kid that decided them. It was shrill, incessant and irresistible. Even the private trader admitted that his young he-goat could not compete. The herdsman was paid off. The Kiburru hunter unwound half-a-dozen yards of twine that he had been wearing round his middle, and tied one end round the kid’s neck. The kid, straining at the cord, looked back at its mother for the last time.
Sir Gardnor turned to the A.D.C.
‘I didn’t see a pole,’ he said. ‘I hope somebody remembered to bring one. If we do get a leopard we can hardly be expected to carry it back across our shoulders, can we?’
It was already dusk when the kid, still bleating, was finally secured to the stake. The Kiburru, not wanting to risk any last minute mishap, tested the attachment by catching hold of the animal’s back legs and pulling. For a moment, all bleating stopped. Then, when the pressure was relaxed, it started up again.
The Kiburru came away, apparently satisfied. They looked up at the fast fading sky; they sniffed to see if there was any wind worth smelling; they pressed their bare feet into the ground; they listened appreciatively to the abandoned kid. Then, single file, they took the trail back to their village.
The dusk became darkness, and the darkness became night. Somewhere out in front of them the miserable bleating continued. Harold felt personally guilty about it: forgetting the leopard altogether, he could think only of the kid.
Sir Gardnor looked down at the luminous figures of his wrist-watch.
‘In less than five minutes,’ he remarked, ‘the moon should be rising.’
There was just a suggestion in his voice that, if for any reason there should be a hold-up, he would expect, if not an apology, at least a full explanation.
The bleating continued. Harold wanted to go down and release the kid, take it back to its mother. He began to shift uneasily. But again Sir Gardnor anticipated him.
‘Don’t give it a thought,’ he said. ‘They’re all Moslems round here. They treat their animals abominably. It’ll be a far quicker death this way than by ritual throat-cutting. Bleeding can be a very slow process.’
And by now the bleats were being overlaid by other noises. Over in the bushes, there was a sudden howling that stopped just as suddenly as it had begun, and was replaced by a scream from somewhere close behind. The scream was repeated, and started up a whole chorus of grunts and snortings below them. There was the sound of small, desperately hurrying feet; a miniature stampede. Then more screaming; and whistles—long, low whistles that ended in a rattling, throaty laugh.
There were other disturbances as well. A shape, large and agile, released itself from one of the upper branches, used the end plank of their platform as a spring-board and took off into space again. Somewhere) in the forest, a tree was being strenuously uprooted. Then, near at hand, a colony of insect impersonators started up. It must have been a band-saw they were imitating. They screamed, they whirred, they squeaked like un-oiled machinery, they let off steam whistles, they broke down. When they were silent, the bleating of the kid could be heard again.
Sir Gardnor turned his head for a moment.
‘There,’ he said, pointing.
Over the screen of trees that flanked the clearing an arc of moon was already showing. It was large and melon-coloured. Sir Gardnor looked at his watch again.
‘And from now on,’ he said serenely, ‘there must be no talking. Not a word from anyone.’
Harold nodded; it seemed hardly worth pointing out that during the past ten minutes the only person who had spoken had been Sir Gardnor. It was past midnight.
The moon had already cleared the trees, and was riding high. It was a full African moon that blotted out the surrounding stars; and, down below, the clearing shone back at it. The shadow of the baobab tree had swung past them as though they were revolving on their own axis; and the moonlight was now falling on the side screen of the mosquito netting. It made it perfectly opaque, like frosted glass. Harold found his head nodding forward as he looked at it. Bracing himself, he turned and concentrated on the lonely figure of the kid. Still at the extreme end of its tether, it was lying down. It appeared to be sleeping. A moment later Harold was asleep himself.
When he woke, it was not because he was rested but because he was alert. He could feel that beside him, Sir Gardnor was tense and rigid, too. He was leaning forward, and through a gap in the mosquito-netting the barrel of his rifle was now pointing. Harold raised himself, and pressed his face against the bars.
And there it was at last—the cat that they had come so far to kill. Across the clearing, standing half in shadow in its own porch-way, it was unhurriedly savouring the night air. Confident that it would meet nothing more powerful or savage than itself, it was totally unconcerned. As Harold looked, he saw it extend its long neck, and yawn. Then, its tail drooping, it took three paces into the open and sat down to wash itself.
A moment later, the kid woke up and resumed its bleating. The leopard immediately went flat. It vanished in the grass. The bleating continued. The leopard advanced a couple of yards, and disappeared again. The kid continued to call for its mother. The leopard, stomach to the ground, moved towards it. Ever so gently, Sir Gardnor edged the muzzle of his rifle forward.
Then, suddenly, the kid smelt the cat. Instantly, it sprang to its feet only to fall down again. When it had recovered itself, it stood there for a moment trembling. Then it tried to escape. The cord hindered it. It could move only in circles. But it was desperate by now: the smell of cat was all round it. Hope lay in running. Bounding, scrambling, falling over, getting entangled in the cord, it wound itself up tightly to its own stake and could go no further. The leopard lifted its head, and squatted there regarding it.
Still Sir Gardnor refused to be rushed. The position and the angle were both entirely wrong. If the beast were to drop its head suddenly, his bullet would almost certainly shatter the skull; and, even if it kept its neck extended, the breast-bone would splinter and fill the skin with puncture marks.
Besides, there was no hurry. The leopard wasn’t going to move away again: he was sure of that. It had seen that the kid was tethered; and, like Sir Gardnor, it intended to take its time. Also, it was enjoying itself. There would be a whole further series of little playful bounds and rushes before it made the final pounce. Sir Gardnor waited.
Then, the leopard, unable to postpone its mealtime any longer, prepared to spring. At one moment, it was there, but invisible, flattened to the ground in the long
grass; and, at the next, gaudy and brilliant in the moonlight, it was sailing triumphantly through the air, its forepaws extended like the hands of a diver. There was one last bleat, but even that was cut short. The leopard already had its teeth in the kid’s neck, and the body was held down by the protruding claws. Harold could see that the white coat of the kid had suddenly been stained scarlet.
At that instant, the posture being exactly right, Sir Gardnor fired.
The shot woke up the surrounding jungle, and screams and shriekings started on all sides. The leopard, knocked flat by the bullet, recovered itself. It clambered to its feet. Then, slowly its back began to arch. Caterpillar-like, it dragged its rear legs forward until its whole body was humped. It stood there, rocking. A second later, it collapsed. Straightening itself out to its full length, it rolled over as though resting, and lay there, its pale stomach showing and its paws half-folded in repose.
‘Good shot, sir.’
The remark might equally well have been made on a tennis court. But Sir Gardnor seemed pleased by it.
‘I think we shall find it was through the heart,’ he said. ‘The way the beast arched its back, you know.’
Harold began reaching out towards the rolled-up rope ladder.
‘Do we go down now, sir?’ he asked.
Sir Gardnor turned his head: he was annoyed with Harold because he hadn’t thought to congratulate him.
‘Hardly just yet,’ he replied. ‘It may only be wounded. Then it could prove dangerous. After all, it is a leopard, you know.’
The native hunters returned, and advanced upon the leopard, their spears pointing. Sir Gardnor was their hero, their saviour, their new witch-doctor. Nor was it only the divine evidence of the single fatal shot that had impressed them. They were in awe, too, of his greater magic: the leopard-curse apparently meant nothing to him.
The leading hunter, however, was taking no chances. He was already addressing the leopard, speaking confidentially to its spirit, assuring it that for his part he had meant it no harm and had, indeed, been absent at the time of the unfortunate accident. Behind him, his companion, as loudly as he could, was jingling a bracelet of teeth and leopard claws in order to deceive the dead leopard into believing that he was not a Kiburru at all, but a genuine family mourner.
The Governor's Lady Page 16
