Jock of the Bushveld

by Percy Fitzpatrick

  As we stood there, crestfallen and disgusted, we heard fresh grunting behind, and turning round we saw one pig racing past in the open, having apparently missed the troop while wallowing in a mudhole and known nothing of our intrusion until he heard the shooting. We gave him a regular broadside, and – as is usually the case when you think that quantity will do in place of quality – made an awful mess of it, and before we had time to reload Jess and Jock had cut in, and we could not fire again for fear of hitting them. The boys, wildly delighted by this irregular development which gave them such a chance, joined in the chase and in a few seconds it became a chaotic romp like a rat hunt in a schoolroom. The dogs ranged up on each side and were on to the pig together, Jess hanging on to one ear and Jock at the neck; the boar dug right and left at them, but his tusks were short and blunt, and if he managed to get at them at all they bore no mark of it afterwards. For about twenty yards they dragged and tugged, and then all three came somersaulting over together. In the scramble Jock got his grip on the throat, and Jess – rolled and trampled on – appeared between the pig’s hindlegs, sliding on her back with her teeth embedded in one of the hams. For half a minute the boar, grunting and snorting, plunged about madly, trying to get at them or to free himself; and then the boys caught up and riddled him with their assegais.

  After the two bombardments of the pigs and the fearful row made by the boys there was not much chance of putting up anything more, and we made for the nearest stream in the woods for a feed and a rest before returning to camp.

  We had failed to get the tiger, it is true, and it would be useless giving more time or further thought to him, for in all probability it would be a week or more before he returned to his old hunting ground and his old marauding tricks, but the porcupine and the pig had provided more interest and amusement than much bigger game might have done, and on the whole, although disappointed, we were not dissatisfied: in fact, it would have needed an ungrateful spirit indeed to feel discontented in such surroundings.

  Big trees of many kinds and shapes united to make a canopy of leaves through which only occasional shafts of sunlight struck. The cold mountain stream tumbling over ledges, swirling among rocks or rippling over pebble-strewn reaches, gurgled, splashed and bubbled with that wonderful medley of sounds that go to make the lullaby of the brook. The floor of the forest was carpeted with a pile of staghorn moss a foot thick, and maidenhair fern grew everywhere with the luxuriant profusion of weeds in a tropical garden. Traveller’s Joy covered whole trees with dense creamy bloom and spread its fragrance everywhere; wild clematis trailed over stumps and fallen branches; quantities of maidenhair overflowed the banks and drooped to the water all along the course of the stream; whilst, marshalled on either side, huddled together on little islands, perched on rocks and grouped on overhanging ledges, stood the tree-ferns – as though they had come to drink – their wide-reaching delicate fronds like giant green ostrich feathers waving gently to each breath of air or quivering as the movement of the water shook the trunks.

  Long-tailed greeny-grey monkeys with black faces peered down at us, moving lightly on their branch trapezes, and pulled faces or chattered their indignant protest against intrusion; in the tops of the wild fig trees bright green pigeons watched us shyly – great big birds of a wonderful green; gorgeous louries too flashed their colours and raised their crests – pictures of extreme and comical surprise; golden cuckoos there were also and beautiful little green-backed ruby-throated sunbirds flitted like butterflies among the flowers on the sunlit fringe of the woods.

  Now and again guineafowl and bush pheasant craned their necks over some fallen log or stone to peer curiously at us, then stooping low again darted along their well-worn runs into the thick bush. The place was in fact a natural preserve; a ‘bay’ let into the wall of the Berg, half-encircled by cliffs which nothing could climb, a little world where the common enemy – man – seldom indeed intruded.

  We stayed there until the afternoon sun had passed behind the crest of the Berg above us; and, instead of going back the way we came, skirted along the other arm enclosing the bay to have the cool shade of the mountain with us on our return journey. But the way was rough; the jungle was dense; we were hot and torn and tired; and the shadow of the mountain stretched far out across the foothills by the time the corner was reached. We sat down to rest at last in the open on the long spur on which, a couple of miles away, the slanting sun picked out the red and black cattle, the white goats and the brown huts of the kaffir kraal.

  Our route lay along the side of the spur, skirting the rocky backbone and winding between occasional boulders, clumps of trees and bush, and we had moved on only a little way when a loud ‘Waugh’ from a baboon on the mountain behind made us stop to look back. The hoarse shout was repeated several times and each time more loudly and emphatically; it seemed like the warning call of a sentry who had seen us. Moved by curiosity we turned aside on to the ridge itself, and from the top of a big rock scanned the almost precipitous face opposite. The spur on which we stood was divided from the Berg itself only by a deep but narrow ravine or kloof, and every detail of the mountainside stood out in the clear evening air, but against the many-coloured rocks the grey figure of a baboon was not easy to find as long as it remained still, and although from time to time the barking roar was repeated, we were still scanning the opposite hill when one of the boys pointed down the slope immediately below us and called out, ‘There, there, Baas!’

  The troop of baboons had evidently been quite close to us – hidden from us only by the little line of rocks – and on getting warning from their sentry on the mountain had stolen quietly away and were then disappearing into the timbered depth of the ravine. We sat still to watch them come out on the opposite side a few minutes later and clamber up the rocky face, for they are always worth watching; but while we watched, the stillness was broken by an agonised scream – horribly human in its expression of terror – followed by roars, barks, bellows and screams from scores of voices in every key; and the crackle of breaking sticks and the rattle of stones added to the medley of sound as the baboons raced out of the wood and up the bare rocky slope.

  ‘What is it?’ ‘What’s the matter?’ ‘There’s something after them.’ ‘Look, look! There they come!’ burst from one and another of us as we watched the extraordinary scene. The cries from below seemed to waken the whole mountain; great booming ‘waughs’ came from different places far apart and ever so high up the face of the Berg; each big roar seemed to act like a trumpet call and bring forth a multitude of others; and the air rang with bewildering shouts and echoes volleying round the kloofs and faces of the Berg. The strange thing was that the baboons did not continue their terrified scramble up the mountain but, once out of the bush, they turned and rallied. Forming an irregular semicircle they faced down hill, thrusting their heads forward with sudden jerks as though to launch their cries with greater vehemence, and feinting to charge; they showered loose earth, stones and debris of all sorts down with awkward underhand scrapes of their forepaws, and gradually but surely descended to within a dozen yards of the bush’s edge.

  ‘Baas, Baas, the tiger! Look, the tiger! There, there on the rock below!’

  Jim shot the words out in vehement gusts, choky with excitement; and true enough, there the tiger was. The long spotted body was crouched on a flat rock just below the baboons; he was broadside to us, with his forequarters slightly raised and his face turned towards the baboons; with wide-opened mouth he snarled savagely at the advancing line, and with right paw raised made threatening dabs in their direction. His left paw pinned down the body of a baboon.

  The voices from the mountain boomed louder and nearer as, clattering and scrambling down the face, came more and more baboons: there must have been hundreds of them; the semicircle grew thicker and blacker, more and more threatening, foot by foot closer. The tiger raised himself a little more and took swift looks from side to side across the advancing front, and then his nerve went, and with o
ne spring he shot from the rock into the bush.

  There was an instant forward rush of the half moon and the rock was covered with roaring baboons, swarming over their rescued comrade; and a moment later the crowd scrambled up the slope again, taking the tiger’s victim with them. In that seething rabble I could pick out nothing, but all the kaffirs maintained they could see the mauled one dragged along by its arms by two others, much as a child might be helped uphill.

  We were still looking excitedly about – trying to make out what the baboons were doing, watching the others still coming down the Berg and peering anxiously for a sight of the tiger – when once more Jim’s voice gave us a shock.

  ‘Where are the dogs?’ he asked; and the question turned us cold. If they had gone after the baboons they were as good as dead already – nothing could save them. Calling was useless: nothing could be heard in the roar and din that the enraged animals still kept up. We watched the other side of the ravine with something more than anxiety, and when Jock’s reddish looking form broke through the bracken near to the tiger’s rock, I felt like shutting my eyes till all was over. We saw him move close under the rock and then disappear. We watched for some seconds – it may have been a minute, but it seemed an eternity – and then, feeling the utter futility of waiting there, jumped off the rock and ran down the slope in the hope that the dogs would hear us call from there.

  From where the slope was steepest we looked down into the bed of the stream at the bottom of the ravine, and the two dogs were there: they were moving cautiously down the wide stony watercourse just as we had seen them move in the morning, their noses thrown up and heads turning slowly from side to side. We knew what was coming; there was no time to reach them through the bush below; the cries of the baboons made calling useless; and the three of us sat down with rifles levelled ready to fire at the first sight. With gun gripped and breath hard held, watching intently every bush and tree and rock, every spot of light and shade, we sat – not daring to move. Then, over the edge of a big rock overlooking the two dogs appeared something round; and, smoothly yet swiftly and with a snake-like movement, the long spotted body followed the head and, flattened against the rock, crept stealthily forward until the tiger looked straight down upon Jess and Jock.

  The three rifles cracked like one, and with a howl of rage and pain the tiger shot out over the dogs’ heads, raced along the stony bed and suddenly plunging its nose to the ground, pitched over – dead.

  It was shot through the heart, and down the ribs on each side were the scraped marks of the trap.

  Buffalo, Bushfire and Wild Dogs

  The summer slipped away – the full-pulsed ripeness of the year; beauty and passion; sunshine and storm; long spells of peace and gentleness, of springing life and radiant glory; short intervals of reckless tempest and destructive storm! Among the massed evergreens of the woods there stood out here and there bright spots of colour, the careless dabs from Nature’s artist hand; yellow and brown, orange and crimson, all vividly distinct, yet all in perfect harmony. The rivers, fed from the replenished mountains’ stores, ran full but clear; the days were bright; the nights were cold; the grass was rank and seeding; and it was time to go.

  Once more the Bushveld beckoned us away.

  We picked a spot where grass and water were good, and waited for the rivers to fall; and it was while loitering there that a small hunting party from the fields making for the Sabi came across us and camped for the night. In the morning two of our party joined them for a few days to try for something big.

  It was too early in the season for really good sport. The rank tropical grass – six to eight feet high in most places, twelve to fourteen in some – was too green to burn yet, and the stout stems and heavy seed heads made walking as difficult as in a field of tangled sugar cane; for long stretches it was not possible to see five yards, and the dew in the early mornings was so heavy that after a hundred yards of such going one was drenched to the skin.

  We were forced into the more open parts – the higher, stonier, more barren ground where just then the bigger game was by no means plentiful.

  On the third day two of us started out to try a new quarter in the hilly country rising towards the Berg. My companion, Francis, was an experienced hunter and his idea was that we should find the big game, not on the hot humid flats or the stony rises, but still higher up on the breezy hilltops or in the cool shady kloofs running towards the mountains. We passed a quantity of smaller game that morning, and several times heard the stampede of big animals – wildebeest and waterbuck, as we found by the spoor – but it was absolutely impossible to see them. The dew was so heavy that even our hats were soaking wet, and times out of number we had to stop to wipe the water out of our eyes in order to see our way; a complete ducking would not have made the least difference.

  Jock fared better than we did, finding openings and game tracks at his own level, which were of no use to us; he also knew better than we did what was going on ahead, and it was tantalising in the extreme to see him slow down and stand with his nose thrown up, giving quick soft sniffs and ranging his head from side to side, when he knew there was something quite close, and knew too that a few more toiling steps in that rank grass would be followed by a rush of something which we would never see.

  Once we heard a foot stamp not twenty yards off, and stood for a couple of minutes on tiptoe trying to pierce the screen of grass in front, absolutely certain that eyes and ears were turned on us in death-like silence, waiting for the last little proof of the intruder that would satisfy their owners and start them off before we could get a glimpse. The silence must have made them suspicious, for at some signal unknown to us the troop broke away and we had the mortification to see something which we had ignored as a branch tilt slowly back and disappear: there was no mistaking the kudu bull’s horns once they moved!

  After two hours of this we struck a stream, and there we made somewhat better pace and less noise, often taking to the bed of the creek for easier going. There, too, we found plenty of drinking places and plenty of fresh spoor of the bigger game and, as the hills began to rise in view above the bush and trees, we found what Francis was looking for. Something caught his eye on the far side of the stream, and he waded in. I followed and when halfway through saw the contented look on his face and caught his words: ‘Buffalo! I thought so!’

  We sat down then to think it out. The spoor told of a troop of a dozen to sixteen animals – bulls, cows and calves; and it was that morning’s spoor: even in the soft moist ground at the stream’s edge the water had not yet oozed into most of the prints. Fortunately there was a light breeze from the hills and, as it seemed probable that in any case they would make that way for the hot part of the day, we decided to follow for some distance on the track and then make for the likeliest poort in the hills.

  The buffalo had come up from the low country in the night on a course striking the creek diagonally in the drinking place; their departing spoor went off at a slight tangent from the stream – the two trails making a very wide angle at the drinking place and confirming the idea that, after their night’s feed in the rich grass lower down, they were making for the hills again in the morning and had touched at the stream to drink.

  Jock seemed to gather from our whispered conversation and silent movements that there was work to hand, and his eyes moved from one face to the other as we talked, much as a child watches the faces in a conversation it cannot quite follow. When we got up and began to move along the trail, he gave one of his little sideways bounds, as if he half thought of throwing a somersault and restrained himself; and then with several approving waggings of his tail settled down at once to business.

  Jock went in front: it was best so, and quite safe for, whilst certain to spot anything long before we could, there was not the least risk of his rushing it or making any noise. The slightest whisper of a ‘Hst’ from me would have brought him to a breathless standstill at any moment; but even this was not likely to be needed, for he k
ept as close a watch on my face as I did on him.

  There was, of course, no difficulty whatever in following the spoor; the animals were as big as cattle, and their trail through the rank grass was as plain as a road: our difficulty was to get near enough to see them without being heard. Under the downtrodden grass there were plenty of dry sticks to step on, any of which would have been as fatal to our chances as a pistol shot, and even the unavoidable rustle of the grass might betray us while the buffalo themselves remained hidden. Thus our progress was very slow, a particularly troublesome impediment being the grass stems thrown down across the trail by the animals crossing and re-crossing each other’s spoor and stopping to crop a mouthful here and there or perhaps to play. The tambookie grass in these parts has a stem thicker than a lead pencil, more like a young bamboo than grass: and these stems thrown crossways by storms or game make an entanglement through which the foot cannot be forced: it means high stepping all the time.

  We expected to follow the spoor for several miles before coming on the buffalo – probably right into the kloof towards which it appeared to lead – but were, nevertheless, quite prepared to drop on to them at any moment, knowing well how game will loiter on their way when undisturbed and vary their time and course, instinctively avoiding the too regular habits which would make them an easy prey.

  Jock moved steadily along the trodden track, sliding easily through the grass or jumping softly and noiselessly over impediments, and we followed, looking ahead as far as the winding course of the trail permitted.

  To right and left of us stood the screen of tall grass, bush and trees. Once Jock stopped, throwing up his nose, and stood for some seconds while we held our breath; but having satisfied himself that there was nothing of immediate consequence, he moved on again – rather more slowly, as it appeared to us. I looked at Francis’s face; it was pale and set like marble, and his watchful grey eyes were large and wide like an antelope’s, as though opened out to take in everything; and those moments of intense interest and expectation were the best part of a memorable day.