Jock of the Bushveld

by Percy Fitzpatrick

  A horse made a good deal of difference in the hunting in many ways, not the least of which was that some sort of excursion was possible on most days. One could go further in the time available and, even if delayed, still be pretty sure of catching up to the waggons without much difficulty.

  Sometimes after a long night’s trekking I would start off after breakfast for some ‘likely’ spot, offsaddle there in a shady place, sleep during the heat of the day and, after a billy of tea, start hunting towards the waggons in the afternoon.

  It was in such a spot on the Komati River, a couple of hundred yards from the bank, that on one occasion I settled down to make up lost ground in the matter of sleep, and with Mungo kneehaltered in good grass and Jock beside me, I lay flat on my back with hat covering my eyes and was soon comfortably asleep.

  The sleep had lasted a couple of hours when I began to dream that it was raining and woke up in the belief that a hailstorm – following the rain – was just breaking over me. I started up to find all just as it had been and the sunlight beyond the big tree so glaring as to make the eyes ache. Through half-closed lids I saw Mungo lying down asleep and made out Jock standing some yards away, quietly watching me.

  With a yawn and stretch I lay back again; sleep was over but a good lazy rest was welcome: it had been earned and, most comforting of all, there was nothing else to be done. In the doze that followed I was surprised to feel quite distinctly something like a drop of rain strike my leg, and then another on my hat.

  ‘Hang it all, it is raining,’ I said, sitting up again and quite wide awake this time. There was Jock still looking at me, but only for the moment of moving, it appears; for a minute later he looked up into the tree above me with ears cocked, head on one side and tail held lazily on the horizontal and moving slowly from time to time.

  It was his look of interested amusement.

  A couple of leaves fluttered down, and then the half-eaten pip of a ‘wooden orange’ struck me in the face as I lay back again to see what was going on above. The pip gave me the line, and away up among the thick dark foliage I saw a little old face looking down at me; the quick restless eyes were watchfully on the move, and the mouth partly opened in the shape of an O – face and attitude together a vivid expression of surprise and indignation combined with breathless interest.

  As my eyes fairly met those above me, the monkey ducked its head forward and promptly ‘made a face’ at me without uttering a sound. Then others showed up in different places, and whole figures became visible now as the monkeys stole softly along the branches to get a better look at Jock and me: there were a couple of dozen of them of all sizes.

  They are the liveliest, most restless and most inquisitive of creatures; ludicrously nervous and excitable; quick to chattering anger and bursts of hysterical passion, which are intensely comical, especially when they have been scared. They are creatures whose method of progress most readily betrays them by the swaying of a branch or quivering of leaves, yet they can steal about and melt away at will, like small grey ghosts, silent as the grave.

  I had often tried to trap them, but never succeeded: Jantje caught them, as he caught everything, with cunning that outmatched his wilder kindred; pitfalls, nooses, whip-traps, fall-traps, foot-snares, drags, slip-knots of all kinds, and tricks that I cannot now remember, were in his repertory; but he disliked showing his traps, and when told to explain he would half sulkily show one of the common kind.

  The day he caught the monkey he was well pleased and may possibly have told the truth. Baboons and monkeys, he said, can count just like men, but they can only count two! If one man goes into a mealiefield and waits for them with a gun, their sentry will see him, and he may wait for ever; if two go and one remains, it is useless, for they realise that only one has come out where two went in; but if three go in, one may remain behind to lie in wait for them, for the monkeys, seeing more than one return, will invade the mealiefield as soon as the two are safely out of the way. That was only Jantje’s explanation of the well-known fact that monkeys and baboons know the difference between one and more than one.

  But, as Jantje explained, their cleverness helped him to catch them. He went alone and came away alone, leaving his trap behind, knowing that they were watching his every movement, but knowing also that their intense curiosity would draw them to it the moment it seemed safe. The trap he used was an old calabash or gourd with a round hole in it about an inch in diameter; and a few pumpkin seeds and mealies and a hard crust of bread, just small enough to get into the calabash, formed the bait.

  After fastening the gourd by a cord to a small stump, he left it lying on its side on the ground where he had been sitting. A few crumbs and seeds were dropped near it and the rest placed in the gourd, with one or two showing in the mouth. Then he walked off on the side where he would be longest in view, and when well out of sight sped round in a circuit to a previously selected spot where he could get close up again and watch.

  The foremost monkey was already on the ground when he got back and others were hanging from low branches or clinging to the stems, ready to drop or retreat. Then began the grunts and careful timid approaches, such as one sees in a party of children hunting for the hidden ‘ghost’ who is expected to appear suddenly and chase them; next, the chattering garrulous warnings and protests from the timid ones – the females – in the upper branches; the sudden start and scurry of one of the youngsters; and the scare communicated to all, making even the leader jump back a pace; then his angry grunt and loud scolding of the frightened ones – angry because they had given him a fright, and loud because he was reassuring himself.

  After a pause they began the careful roundabout approach and the squatting and waiting, making pretences of not being particularly interested, while their quick eyes watched everything; then the deft picking up of one thing – instantly dropped again, as one picks up a roasted chestnut and drops it in the same movement, in case it should be hot; and finally the greedy scramble and chatter.

  I have seen all that, but not, alas, the successful ending, when trying to imitate Jantje’s methods. Jantje waited until the tugs at the gourd became serious and then, knowing that the smaller things had been taken out or shaken out and eaten and that some enterprising monkey had put its arm into the hole and grabbed the crust, he ran out.

  A monkey rarely lets go any food it has grabbed and when, as in this case, the hand is jammed in a narrow neck, the letting go cannot easily be done instinctively or inadvertently; the act requires a deliberate effort. So Jantje caught his monkey, and flinging his ragged coat over the captive sat down to make it safe. By pushing the monkey’s arm deeper into the gourd the crust became released and the hand freed; he then gradually shifted the monkey about until he got the head into the shoulders of the loose old coat, and thence into the sleeve; and worked away at this until he had the creature as helpless as a mummy with the head appearing at the cuff-opening and the body jammed in the sleeve like a bulging overstuffed sausage. The monkey struggled, screamed, chattered, made faces and cried like a child; but Jantje, gripping it between his knees, worked away unmoved.

  He next took the cord from the calabash and tied one end securely round the monkey’s neck, to the shrinking horror of that individual, and the other end to a stout bush stick about seven or eight feet long; and then slipped monkey, cord and stick back through the sleeve and had his captive safe; the cord prevented it from getting away, and the stick from getting too close and biting him. When they sat opposite and pulled faces at each other the family likeness was surprising.

  The grimacing little imps invariably tempt one to tease or chase them, just to see their antics and methods; and when I rose, openly watching them and stepping about for a better view, they abandoned the silent methods and bounded freely from branch to branch for fresh cover, always ducking behind something if I pointed the gun or a stick or even my arm at them, and getting into paroxysms of rage and leaning over to slang and cheek me whenever it seemed safe.


  Jock was full of excitement, thoroughly warmed up and anxious to be at them, running about from place to place to watch them, tacking and turning and jumping for better views, and now and then running to the trunk and scraping at it. Whenever he did this there was a moment’s silence; the idea of playing a trick on them struck me and I caught Jock up and put him in the fork of a big main branch about six feet from the ground. The effect was magical: the whole of the top of the tree seemed to whip and rustle at once, and in two seconds there was not a monkey left.

  Then a wave in the top of a small tree some distance off betrayed them and we gave chase – a useless romping schoolboy chase. They were in the small trees away from the river and it was easy to see and follow them; and to add to the fun and excitement I threw stones at the branches behind them. Their excitement and alarm then became hysterical, and as we darted about to head them off they were several times obliged to scamper a few yards along the ground to avoid me and gain other trees. It was then that Jock enjoyed himself most: he ran at them and made flying leaps and snaps as they sprang up the trees out of reach. It was like a caricature of children in one of their make-believe chases; the screams, grimaces and actions were so human that it would have seemed like a tragedy had one of them been hurt. They got away into the big trees once more, to Jock’s disappointment but greatly to my relief, for I was quite pumped from the romp and laughter.

  The river at this point was broken into several sluices by islands formed by piles of rocks on which there were a few stunted trees and dense growths of tall reeds, and here and there little spits and fringes of white sand were visible. There was plenty of small game in that part, and it was a great place for crocodiles. As we were then about half a mile below where Mungo had been left I strolled along the bank on the lookout for a shot, frequently stopping to examine suspicious looking rocks on the sand-spits or at the borders of the reed fringes on the little islands.

  The shooting of crocodiles was an act of war: it was enmity and not sport or a desire for trophies that prompted it, and when it did not interfere with other chances we never missed a practice shot at these fellows. I picked out several ‘rocks’, so suspicious looking that I would have had a shot at them had there been a clear chance, and twice, while I was trying to make them out, they slid silently into the water before there was time to fire.

  However, further on there came a better chance than any: there was something so peculiar about the look of this ‘rock’ that I picked a good spot and sat down to watch it; and presently the part nearest me turned slightly, just enough to show that it was a crocodile lying on the flat sand with his nose towards me and his tail hidden in the reeds. It was fifty yards away and from where I sat there was not much to aim at, as a Martini bullet would glance from almost any part of that polished hard case if it struck at such an angle.

  I was sitting on the bank above the shelving beach of the river on which a dense mass of reeds grew and the waving feathery tops partly obscured the sight. I know the bullet hit him somewhere, because he bounded with astonishing strength and activity several feet in the air and his tail slashed through the reeds like a mighty scythe. The huge jaws opened and he gave a horrible angry bellow – something between a roar and a snarl – as he plunged into the river, sending masses of spray and water flying every way. He made straight across, apparently at me, swimming on top of the water at amazing speed and throwing up a wave on either side and a white swirl of foam from the propelling tail.

  It was certainly a most surprising and unheard of proceeding, and as he reached my side of the stream, and because hidden from me by the screen of reeds at my feet, I turned and bolted. It may be that he came at me with murderous intent; or it may be that, blinded by rage or pain, he came towards me simply because he happened to be facing that way; but, whatever the reason, it was painfully clear that if he meant business he would be on to me before it was possible to see him in the reeds. That was enough for me. It had never occurred to me that there was going to be any fun in this for the crocodile; but one’s sense of humour and justice was always being stimulated in the Bushveld.

  With twenty yards of open ground between us I turned and waited; but no crocodile appeared, nor was there a sound to be heard in the reeds. A few minutes’ wait; a cautious return; a careful scrutiny; and then resort to sticks and stones; but all to no purpose: there was neither sign nor sound of the crocodile; and not being disposed to go into the reeds to look for something which I did not want, but might want me, I returned to Mungo – a little wiser, it is true, but not unduly ‘heady’ on that account.

  Half an hour’s jogging along the bank having failed to propose anything, I struck away from the river taking a line through the bush towards camp, and eventually came across a small herd of blue wildebeest. Mungo’s pricked ears and raised head warned me; but the grass being high it was not easy to see enough of them from the ground to place an effective shot, and before a chance offered they moved off slowly. I walked after them, leading Mungo and trying to get a fair opening on slightly higher ground.

  Presently half a dozen blackish things appeared above the tall grass; they were the heads of the wildebeest – all turned one way, and all looking at us with ears widespread. Only the upper halves of the heads were visible through the thinner tops of the grass and even an ordinary standing shot was not possible. I had to go to a tree for support in order to tiptoe for the shot, and whilst in the act of raising my rifle the heads disappeared; but I took chance and fired just below where the last one had shown up.

  The wildebeest were out of sight, hidden by grass six feet high, but a branch of the tree beside me served as a horizontal bar and, hoisting myself chin high, I was able to see them again. In front of us there was a dry vlei quite free of bush, some two hundred yards across and four hundred yards long, and the wildebeest had gone away to the right and were skirting the vlei, apparently meaning to get round to the opposite side, avoiding the direct cut across the vlei for reasons of their own. It occurred to me that there must be a deep donga or perhaps a mudhole in front which they were avoiding; but that it might be possible for me to get across, or even halfway across, in time to have another shot at them the next time they stopped to look back, as they were almost certain to do; so I ran straight on.

  One does not have to reason things out like that in actual practice: the conclusion comes instantly, as if by instinct, and no time is lost. To drop from the branch, pick up the rifle and start running were all parts of one movement. Stooping slightly to prevent my bobbing hat from showing up in the grass tops, and holding the rifle obliquely before me as a sort of snowplough to clear the grass from my eyes, I made as good pace as the ground would allow.

  No doubt the rifle held in front of me made it difficult to notice anything on the ground; but the concentrated stare across the vlei in the direction of the galloping wildebeest was quite as much the cause of what followed. Going fast and stooping low, with all my weight thrown forward, I ran into a wildebeest cow. My shot had wounded her through the kidneys, completely paralysing the hindquarters, and she had instantly dropped out of sight in the grass. The only warning I got was a furious snort, and the black looking monster with great blazing bloodshot eyes rose up on its front legs as I ran into it.

  To charge into a wounded wildebeest ready to go for you, just when your whole attention is concentrated upon others two hundred yards beyond, is nearly as unpleasant as it is unexpected; it becomes a question of what will happen to you, rather than of what you will do. That at any rate was my experience. The rifle, if it had hindered me, also helped: held out at arm’s length it struck the wildebeest across the forehead and the collision saved my chest from the horns. There was an angry toss of the big head and the rifle was twirled out of my hand, as one might flip a match away.

  I do not know exactly what happened: the impression is of a breathless second’s whirl and scramble, and then finding myself standing untouched five yards away, with the half-paralysed wildebeest squatting
like a dog and struggling to drag the useless hindquarters along in its furious efforts to get at Jock who had already intervened to help me.

  The rifle lay within the circle of the big hooked horns; and the squatting animal, making a pivot of its hindquarters, slewed round and round, making savage lunges at Jock and great heaves at me each time I tried to get the rifle.

  It often happens that shots touching the kidneys produce a paralysis, temporarily severe, which passes off to a great extent after some minutes and leaves the wounded animal well able to charge: it happened to me some years later while trying to photograph a wounded sable.

  I tried to hook the gun out with a stick, but the wildebeest swung round and faced me at once, snapping the sticks and twirling them out of my hands with surprising ease and quickness. I then tried another game, and by making feint attacks from the other side at last got the animal gradually worked away from my gun; and the next attempt at raking was successful.

  When the excitement was over and there was a chance of taking stock of the position, I found that Jock had a pretty good ‘gravel rash’ on one hip and a nasty cut down one leg; he had caught the wildebeest by the nose the instant I ran into it, and it had ‘wiped the floor’ with him and flung him aside.

  I found my bandolier with a broken buckle lying on the grass; one shirt sleeve was ripped open; the back of the right hand cut across; hands and knees were well grated; and there were lumps and bruises about the legs for which there was no satisfactory explanation. I must have scrambled out like an unwilling participant in a dog fight.

  It was a long job skinning, cutting up and packing the wildebeest, and when we reached the outspan the waggons had already started and we had a long tramp before us to catch them.

  I drove Mungo before me, keeping him at an easy jog. We had been going for possibly an hour and it was quite dark, except for the stars and the young moon low down on our right; the road was soft and Mungo’s jogging paces sounded like floppy pats; there was no other sound at all, not even a distant rumble from the waggons to cheer us; Mungo must have been sick of it and one might have thought him jogging in his sleep but for the occasional pricking of his ears – a trick that always makes me wonder how much more do horses see in the dark than we do. I walked like a machine, with rifle on shoulder and glad to be rid of the broken bandolier, then transferred to Mungo; and Jock trotted at my heels.