Jock of the Bushveld

by Percy Fitzpatrick

  When he began to sniff and walk upwind I took the rifle and followed, and only a little way off we came into dry vlei ground where there were few trees and the grass stood about waist-high. Some two hundred yards away where the ground rose slightly and the bush became thicker there was a fair-sized troop of impala, perhaps a hundred or more, and just behind, and mostly to one side of them, were between twenty and thirty tsessebe. We saw them clearly and in time to avoid exposing ourselves: they were neither feeding nor resting, but simply standing about, and individual animals were moving unconcernedly from time to time with an air of idle loitering. I tried to pick out a good tsessebe ram, but the impala were in the way, and it was necessary to crawl for some distance to reach certain cover away on the right.

  Crawling is hard work and very rough on both hands and knees in the Bushveld, frequent rests being necessary. In one of the pauses I heard a curious sound of soft padded feet jumping behind me, and looking quickly about caught Jock in the act of taking his observations. The grass was too high for him to see over, even when he stood up on his hindlegs, and he was giving jumps of slowly increasing strength to get the height which would enable him to see what was on. I shall never forget that first view of Jock’s ballooning observations; it became a regular practice afterwards and I grew accustomed to seeing him stand on his hindlegs or jump when his view was shut out – indeed sometimes when we were having a slow time I used to draw him by pretending to stalk something; but it is that first view that remains a picture of him. I turned at the instant when he was at the top of his jump; his legs were all bunched up, his eyes staring eagerly and his ears had flapped out, giving him a look of comic astonishment. It was a most surprisingly unreal sight: he looked like a caricature of Jock shot into the air by a galvanic shock. A sign with my hand brought him flat on the ground, looking distinctly guilty, and we moved along again; but I was shaking with silent laughter.

  At the next stop I had a look back to see how he was behaving, and to my surprise, although he was following carefully close behind me, he was looking steadily away to our immediate right. I subsided gently on to my left side to see what it was that interested him, and to my delight saw a troop of twenty to twenty-five blue wildebeest. They too were ‘standing any way’ and evidently had not seen us.

  I worked myself cautiously round to face them so as to be able to pick my shot and take it kneeling, thus clearing the tops of the grass; but whilst doing this another surprising development took place. Looking hard and carefully at the wildebeest two hundred yards away, I became conscious of something else in between us, and only half the distance off, looking at me. It had the effect of a shock; the disagreeable effect produced by having a book or picture suddenly thrust close to the face; the feeling of wanting to get further away from it to re-focus one’s sight.

  What I saw was simply a dozen quagga, all exactly alike, all standing alike, all looking at me, all full face to me, their forefeet together, their ears cocked and their heads quite motionless – all gazing steadily at me, alive with interest and curiosity. There was something quite ludicrous in it, and something perplexing also; when I looked at the quagga the wildebeest seemed to get out of focus and were lost to me; when I looked at the wildebeest the quagga ‘blurred’ and faded out of sight. The difference in distance, perhaps as much as the very marked difference in the distinctive colourings, threw me out; and the effect of being watched also told. Of course I wanted to get a wildebeest, but I was conscious of the watching quagga all the time and, for the life of me, could not help constantly looking at them to see if they were going to start off and stampede the others.

  Whilst trying to pick out the best of the wildebeest a movement away on the left made me look that way: the impala jumped off like one animal, scaring the tsessebe into a scattering rout; the quagga switched round and thundered off like a stampede of horses; and the wildebeest simply vanished. One signal in one troop had sent the whole lot off. Jock and I were left alone, still crouching, looking from side to side, staring at the slowly drifting dust and listening to the distant sound of galloping feet.

  It was a great disappointment, but the conviction that we had found a really good spot made some amends, and Snowball was left undisturbed to feed and rest for another two hours. We made for the waggons along another route, taking in some of the newly discovered country in the home sweep, and the promise of the morning was fulfilled. We had not been more than a few minutes on the way when a fine rietbuck ram jumped up within a dozen yards of Snowball’s nose. Old Rocky had taught me to imitate the rietbuck’s shrill whistle and this one fell to the first shot. He was a fine big fellow and, as Snowball put on airs and pretended to be nervous when it came to packing the meat, I had to blindfold him, and after hoisting the buck up to a horizontal branch lowered it on to his back.

  Snowball was villainously slow and bad to lead. He knew that whilst being led neither whip nor spur could touch him, and when loaded up with meat he dragged along at a miserable walk: one had to haul him. Once – but only once – I had tried driving him before me, trusting to about 400 lb. weight of kudu meat to keep him steady; but no sooner had I stepped behind with a switch than he went off with a cumbrous plunge and bucked like a frantic mule until he rid himself of his load, saddle and all. The fact is, one person could not manage him on foot, it needed one at each end of him, and he knew it; thus it worked out at a compromise: he carried my load, and I went his pace!

  We were labouring along in this fashion when we came on the wildebeest again. A white man on foot seemed to be recognised as an enemy; but if accompanied by animals, either on horseback, driving in a vehicle, leading a horse or walking among cattle, he may pass unnoticed for a long while: attention seems to be fixed on the animals rather than the man, and frank curiosity instead of alarm is quite evidently the feeling aroused.

  The wildebeest had allowed me to get close up, and I picked out the big bull and took a shot kneeling, with my toe hooked in the reins to secure Snowball, taking the chance of being jerked off my aim rather than let him go; but he behaved like an angel, and once more that day a single shot was enough.

  It was a long and tedious job skinning the big fellow, cutting him up, hauling the heavy limbs and the rest of the meat up into a suitable tree, and making all safe against the robbers of the earth and the air; and most troublesome of all was packing the head and skin on Snowball, who showed the profoundest mistrust of this dark ferocious looking monster.

  Snowball and I had had enough of it when we reached camp, well after dark; but Jock I am not so sure of: his invincible keenness seemed at times to have something in it of mute reproach – the tinge of disappointment in those they love which great hearts feel, and strive to hide! I never outstayed Jock, and never once knew him ‘own up’ that he had had enough.

  No two days were quite alike; yet many were alike in the sense that they were successful without hitch and without interest to any but the hunters; many others were marked by chases in which Jock’s part – most essential to success – too closely resembled that of other days to be worth repeating. On that day he had, as usual, been the one to see the wildebeest and had ‘given the word’ in time; the rest was only one straight shot. That was fair partnership in which both were happy; but there was nothing much to talk about.

  There was very little wanton shooting with us, for when we had more fresh meat than was required, as often happened, it was dried as ‘biltong’ for the days of shortage which were sure to come.

  I started off early next morning with the boys to bring in the meat, and went on foot, giving Snowball a rest, more or less deserved. By nine o’clock the boys were on their way back, and leaving them to take the direct route I struck away eastwards along the line of the pools, not expecting much and least of all dreaming that fate had one of the worst days in store for us: ‘From cloudless heavens her lightnings glance’ did not occur to my mind as we moved silently along in the bright sunshine.

  We passed the second pool, loit
ering a few minutes in the cool shade of the evergreens to watch the green pigeons feeding on the wild figs and peering down curiously at us; then moved briskly into more open ground. It is not wise to step too suddenly out of the dark shade into strong glare, and it may have been that act of carelessness that enabled the kudu to get off before I saw them. They cantered away in a string with the cows in the rear, between me and two full-grown bulls. It was a running shot – end on – and the last of the troop, a big cow, gave a stumble; but catching herself up again she cantered off slowly. Her body was all bunched up and she was pitching greatly, and her hindlegs kept flying out in irregular kicks, much as you may see a horse kick out when a blind fly is biting him.

  There was no time for a second shot and we started off in hot pursuit; and fifty yards further on where there was a clear view I saw that the kudu was going no faster than an easy canter, and Jock was close behind.

  Whether he was misled by the curious action, and believed there was a broken leg to grip, or was simply overbold, it is impossible to know. Whatever the reason, he jumped for one of the hindlegs, and at the same moment the kudu lashed out viciously. One foot struck him under the jaw close to the throat, ‘whipped’ his head and neck back like a bent switch and hurled him somersaulting backwards.

  I have the impression – as one sees oneself in a nightmare – of a person throwing up his arms and calling the name of his child as a train passed over it.

  Jock lay limp and motionless, with the blood oozing from mouth, nose and eyes. I recollect feeling for his heartbeat and breath, and shaking him roughly and calling him by name; then, remembering the pool nearby, I left him in the shade of a tree, filled my hat with water, ran back again and poured it over him and into his mouth, shaking him again to rouse him and several times pressing his sides – bellows fashion – in a ridiculous effort to restore breathing.

  The old hat was leaky and I had to grip the rough-cut ventilations to make it hold any water at all. I was returning with a second supply when, with a great big heartjump, I saw Jock heel over from his side and with his forelegs flat on the ground raise himself to a resting position, his head wagging groggily and his eyes blinking in a very dazed way.

  He took no notice when I called his name, but at the touch of my hand his ears moved up and the stumpy tail scraped feebly in the dead leaves. He was stone deaf; but I did not know it then. He lapped a little of the water, sneezed the blood away and licked his chops; and then, with evident effort, stood up.

  But this is the picture which it is impossible to forget. The dog was still so dazed and shaken that he reeled slightly, steadying himself by spreading his legs well apart, and there followed a few seconds’ pause in which he stood thus; and then he began to walk forward with the uncertain staggery walk of a toddling child. His jaws were set close; his eyes were beady black and he looked ‘fight’ all over. He took no notice of me; and I, never dreaming that he was after the kudu, watched the walk quicken to a laboured trot before I moved or called; but he paid no heed to the call. For the first time in his life there was rank open defiance of orders, and he trotted slowly along with his nose to the ground. Then I understood; and, thinking he was maddened by the kick and not quite responsible for himself, and – more than that – admiring his pluck far too much to be angry, I ran to bring him back; but at a turn in his course he saw me coming, and this time he obeyed the call and signal instantly, and with a limp air of disappointment followed quietly back to the tree.

  The reason for Jock’s persistent disobedience that day was not even suspected then; I put everything down to the kick; and he seemed to me to be ‘all wrong’, but indeed there was excuse enough for him. Nevertheless it was puzzling that at times he should ignore me in positively contemptuous fashion, and at others obey with all his old readiness: I neither knew he was deaf, nor realised that the habit of using certain signs and gestures when I spoke to him – and even of using them in place of orders when silence was imperative – had made him almost independent of the word of mouth. From that day he depended wholly upon signs; for he never heard another sound.

  Jock came back with me and lay down; but he was not content. Presently he rose again and remained standing with his back to me, looking steadily in the direction taken by the kudu. It was fine to see the indomitable spirit, but I did not mean to let him try again; the kudu was as good as dead no doubt, yet a hundred kudu would not have tempted me to risk taking him out: to rest him and get him back to the camp was the only thought. I was feeling very soft about the dog then. And while I sat thus watching him and waiting for him to rest and recover, once more and almost within reach of me he started off again. But it was not as he had done before: this time he went with a spring and a rush, and with head lowered and meaning business. In vain I called and followed: he outpaced me and left me in a few strides.

  The kudu had gone along the right bank of the donga which, commencing just below the pool, extended half a mile or more down the flat valley. Jock’s rush was magnificent, but it was puzzling, and his direction was even more so; for he made straight for the donga.

  I ran back for the rifle and followed. He had already disappeared down the steep bank of the donga when, through the trees on the opposite side, I saw a kudu cow moving along at a slow cramped walk. The donga was a deep one with perpendicular sides, and in places even overhanging crumbling banks, and I reached it as Jock, slipping and struggling, worked his way up the other wall writhing and climbing through the tree roots exposed by the floods. As he rushed out the kudu saw him and turned; there was just a chance – a second of time: a foot of space – before he got in the line of fire; and I took it. One hindleg gave way, and in the short sidelong stagger that followed Jock jumped at the kudu’s throat and they went down together.

  It took me several minutes to get through the donga, and by that time the kudu was dead and Jock was standing, wide-mouthed and panting, on guard at its head: the second shot had been enough.

  It was an unexpected and puzzling end; and, in a way, not a welcome one, as it meant delay in getting back. After the morning’s experience there was not much inclination for the skinning and cutting up of a big animal and I set to work gathering branches and grass to hide the carcass, meaning to send the boys back for it.

  But the day’s experiences were not over yet: a low growl from Jock made me look sharply round, to see half a dozen kaffirs coming through the bush with a string of mongrel hounds at their heels.

  So that was the explanation of the kudu’s return to us! The natives, a hunting party, had heard the shot and, coming along in hopes of meat, had met and headed off the wounded kudu, turning her back almost on her own tracks. There was satisfaction in having the puzzle solved, but the more practical point was that here was all the help I wanted; and the boys readily agreed to skin the animal and carry the forequarters to the camp for the gift of the rest.

  Then my trouble began with Jock. He flew at the first of the kaffir dogs that sneaked up to sniff at the kudu. Shouting at him produced no effect whatsoever and before I could get hold of him he had mauled the animal pretty badly. After hauling him off I sat down in the shade, with him beside me; but there were many dogs, and a succession of affairs, and I, knowing nothing of his deafness, became thoroughly exasperated and surprised by poor old Jock’s behaviour.

  His instinct to defend our kills, which was always strong, was roused that day beyond control, and his hatred of kaffir dogs – an implacable one in any case – made a perfect fury of him; still, the sickening awful feeling that came over me as he lay limp and lifeless was too fresh, and it was not possible to be really angry; and after half a dozen of the dogs had been badly handled there was something so comical in the way they sheered off and eyed Jock that I could only laugh. They sneaked behind bushes and tried to circumvent him in all sorts of ways, but fled precipitately as soon as he moved a step or lowered his head and humped his shoulders threateningly. Even the kaffir owners, who had begun to look glum, broke into appreciat
ive laughter and shouts of admiration for the white man’s dog.

  Jock kept up an unbroken string of growls, not loud, of course, but I could feel them going all the while like a volcano’s rumbling as my restraining hand rested on him, and when the boys came up to skin the kudu I had to hold him down and shake him sharply. The dog was mad with fight; he bristled all over; and no patting or talking produced more than a flicker of his ears. The growling went on; the hair stood up; the tail was quite unresponsive; his jaws were set like a vice; and his eyes shone like two black diamonds. He had actually struggled to get free of my hand when the boys began to skin, and they were so scared by his resolute attempt that they would not start until I put him down between my knees and held him.

  I was sitting against a tree only three or four yards from the kudu, and the boys, who had lighted a fire in anticipation of early titbits which would grill while they worked, were getting along well with the skinning, when one of them saw fit to pause in order to hold forth in the native fashion on the glories of the chase and the might of the white man. Jock’s head lay on his paws and his mouth was shut like a rat-trap; his growling grew louder as the bombastic nigger, all unconscious of the wicked watching eyes behind him, waved his bloodstained knife and warmed to his theme.

  ‘Great you thought yourself,’ proclaimed the orator, addressing the dead kudu in a long rigmarole which was only partly understood by me but evidently much approved by the other boys as they stooped to their work, ‘Swift of foot and strong of limb. But the white man came, and – there!’ I could not make out the words with any certainty; but whatever the last word was, it was intended as a dramatic climax, and to lend additional force to his point the orator let fly a resounding kick on the kudu’s stomach.