Jock of the Bushveld

by Percy Fitzpatrick

  This tired monotonous progress was disturbed by Mungo: his ears pricked; his head went up; and he stopped, looking hard at a big low bush on our left. I gave him a tap with the switch, and without an instant hesitation he dashed off to the right making a half circle through the veld and coming into the road again fifty yards ahead, and galloped away leaving a rising column of dust behind him.

  I stood and faced the bush that Mungo had shied at, and the first thing that occurred to me was that my bandolier and cartridges were with the pony. Then Jock growled low and moved a few steps forward and slightly to the right, also sheering off from that bush. I felt that he was bristling all over, but there was neither time nor light to watch him. I stepped slowly sideways after him, gripping the rifle and looking hard at the bush.

  Our line was much the same as Mungo’s and would take us some seven or eight paces off the road – more than that was not possible, owing to the barrier of thorns on that side. When we got abreast of the bush two large spots of pale light appeared in the middle of it, apparently waist-high from the ground.

  It is impossible to forget the tense creepy feeling caused by the dead stillness, the soft light and the pale expressionless glow of those eyes – the haunting mystery of eyes and nothing more!

  It is not unusual to see eyes in the night; but this was a ‘nervy’ occasion, and there is no other that comes back with all the vividness and reality of the experience itself, as this one does. And I was not the only nervous one. Mungo incontinently bolted – probably what he saw warranted it; Jock, as ever, faced it; but when my foot touched his hindleg as we sidled away he flew around with a convulsive jump. He too was strung to concert pitch.

  As we moved on and passed the reflecting angle of the moon, the light of the eyes went out as suddenly and silently as it had appeared. There was nothing then to show me where danger lay; but Jock knew and I kept a watch on him. He jogged beside me, lagging slightly as if to cover our retreat, always looking back. A couple of times he stopped entirely and stood in the road, facing straight back and growling; and I followed. He was in command; he knew!

  There was nothing more. Gradually Jock’s subdued purring growl died down and the glances back became fewer. I found Mungo a long way on, brought to a standstill by the slipping of his load; and we caught up to the waggons at the next outspan.

  The Old Crocodile

  We reached the Crocodile River drift on a Sunday morning after a particularly dry and dusty night trek. ‘Wanting a wash’ did not on such occasions mean a mild inclination for a luxury: it meant that washing was badly needed. The dust lay inches deep on the one worn veld road, and the long strings of oxen toiling along kicked up suffocating clouds of fine dust which there was seldom any breeze to carry off: it powdered white man and black to an equal level of yellowy red. The waggons were a couple of hundred yards from the river; and, taking a complete change, I went off for a real clean up.

  We generally managed to get in a couple of bathes at the rivers – real swims – but that was only done in the regular drifts and when there were people about or waggons crossing. In such conditions crocodiles rarely appeared; they prefer solitude and silence. The swims were very delightful but somewhat different from ordinary bathes; however remote may have been the risk of meeting a crocodile when you dived, or of being grabbed by one as you swam, the idea was always there and made it more interesting.

  Being alone that day I had no intention of having a swim or of going into the open river, and I took a little trouble to pick a suitable pool with a rock on which to stand and dress. The water was clear and I could see the bottom of the pool. It was quite shallow – three feet deep at most – made by a scour in the sandy bed and divided from the main stream by a narrow spit of sand a couple of yards wide and twenty long. At the top end of the sand-spit was a flat rock – my dressing table.

  After a dip in the pool I stood on the sand-spit to scrub off the brown dust, keeping one unsoaped eye roving round for intrusive crocodiles, and the loaded rifle lying beside me. The brutes slid out so silently and unexpectedly that in that exposed position, with water all round, one could not afford to turn one’s back on any quarter for long. There is something laughable – it seemed faintly humorous even then – in the idea of a naked man hastily washing soap out of his eyes and squeezing away the water to take a hurried look behind him, and then after careful survey, doing an ‘altogether’ dowse just as hastily – blowing and spluttering all the time like a boy after his first dive.

  The bath was successful and ended without incident – not a sign of a crocodile the whole time! Breakfast was ready when I reached the waggons, and feeling very fit and clean in a fresh flannel shirt and white moleskins, I sat down to it. Jim Makokel’ brought the kettle of coffee from the fire and was in the act of pouring some into a big mug when he stopped with a grunt of surprise and, looking towards the river, called out sharply, ‘What is it?’

  One of the herdboys was coming at a trot towards us, and the drivers, thinking something had happened to the oxen, called a question to him. He did not answer until he reached them and even then spoke in so quiet a tone that I could not catch what he said. But Jim, putting down the kettle, ran to his waggon and, grabbing his sticks and assegais, called to me in a husky shouting whisper – which imperfectly describes Jim’s way of relieving his feelings, without making the whole world echo: ‘Ingwenye, Inkos! Ingwenye Umkulu! Big Clocodile! Groot Krokodil, Baas!’

  Then abandoning his excited polyglot he gabbled off in pure Zulu and at incredible speed a long account of the big crocodile: it had carried off four boys going to the goldfields that year; it had taken a woman and a baby from the kraal nearby, but a white man had beaten it off with a bucket; it had taken all the dogs, and even calves and goats, at the drinking place; and goodness knows how much more. How Jim got his news, and when he made his friends, were puzzles never solved.

  Hunting stories, like travellers’ tales, are proverbially dangerous to reputations, however literally true they may be; and this is necessarily so, partly because only exceptional things are worth telling and partly because the conditions of the country or the life referred to are unfamiliar and cannot be grasped. It is a depressing but accepted fact that the ideal, lurid – and, I suppose, convincing – pictures of wildlife are done in London, where the author is unhampered by fact or experience.

  ‘Stick to the impossible, and you will be believed: keep clear of fact and commonplace, and you cannot be checked.’

  Such was the cynical advice given many years ago by one who had bought his experience in childhood and could not forget it. Sent home as a small boy from a mission station in Zululand to be educated by his grandparents, he found the demand for marvels among his simple country relatives so great that his small experience of snakes and wild animals was soon used up; but the eager suggestive questions of the good people, old and young, led him on and he shyly crossed the border. The Fields of Fancy were fair and free; there were no fences there; and he stepped out gaily into the Little People’s country – The Land of Let’s Pretendia! He became very popular.

  One day, however, whilst looking at the cows, he remarked that in Zululand a cow would not yield her milk unless the calf stood by.

  The old farmer stopped in his walk, gave him one suspicious look and asked coldly, ‘What do they do when a calf is killed or dies?’

  ‘They never kill the calves there,’ the boy answered, ‘but once when one died father stuffed the skin with grass and showed it to the cow, because they said that would do.’

  The old man, red with anger, took the boy to his room, saying that as long as he spoke of the lions, tigers and snakes that he knew about, they believed him; but when it came to farming! No! Downright lying he would not have; and there was nothing for it but larruping.

  ‘It was the only piece of solid truth they had allowed me to tell for months,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘and I got a first class hiding for it.’

  And was there no one who doubted
Du Chaillu and Stanley and others? Did no one question Gordon Cumming’s story of the herd of elephants caught and killed in a little kloof? And did not we of Barberton many years later locate the spot by the enormous pile of bones, and name it Elephants’ Kloof?

  There are two crocodile incidents well known to those whom time has now made old hands but believed by no one else; even in the day of their happening they divided men into believers and unbelievers. The one was of ‘Mad’ Owen – only mad because utterly reckless – riding through Komati Drift one moonlight night alone and unarmed, who, riding, found his horse brought to a stop, plunging, kicking and struggling on the sandbank in midstream where the water was not waist deep. Owen, looking back, saw that a crocodile had his horse by the leg. All he had was a leaded hunting crop but, jumping into the water, he laid on so vigorously that the crocodile made off, and Owen remounted and rode out.

  There are many who say that it is not true – that it cannot be true; for no man would do it. But there are others who have an open mind, because they knew Owen – Mad Owen, who for a wager bandaged his horse’s eyes and galloped him over a twenty foot bank, headlong into the Jew’s Hole in Lydenburg; Owen, who when driving four young horses in a Cape cart flung the reins away and whipped up the team, bellowing with laughter, because his nervous companion said he had never been upset and did not want to be; Owen who – But too many things rise up that earned him his title and blow the ‘impossible’ to the winds.

  Mad Owen deserves a book to himself; but here is my little testimony on his behalf, given shamefaced at the thought of how he would roar to think it needed.

  I crossed that same drift one evening and on riding up the bank to Furley’s store saw a horse standing in a dejected attitude with one hindleg clothed in ‘trousers’ made of sacking and held up by a suspender ingeniously fastened across his back.

  During the evening something reminded me of the horse, and I asked a question; and the end of Furley’s answer was, ‘They say it’s all a yarn about horsewhipping a crocodile: all we know is that one night, a week ago, he turned up here, dripping wet, and after having a drink told us the yarn. He had the leaded hunting crop in his hand; and that’s the horse he was riding. You can make what you like of it. We’ve been doctoring the horse ever since, but I doubt if it will pull through!’

  I have no doubt about the incident. Owen did not invent: he had no need to; and Furley himself was no mean judge of crocodiles and men. Furley kept a ferry boat for the use of natives and others when the river was up, at half a crown a trip. The business ran itself and went strong during the summer floods, but in winter when the river was low and fordable it needed pushing; and then Furley’s boatman, an intelligent native, would loiter about the drift and interest travellers in his crocodile stories and, if they proved overconfident or sceptical, would manoeuvre them a little way downstream where, from the bank, they would usually see a big crocodile sunning himself on a sand-spit below the drift. The boys always took the boat. One day some police entered the store and joyously announced that they had got him – ‘bagged the old villain at last!’; and Furley dropped on a sack of mealies groaning out, ‘Glory, boys! The ferry’s ruined. Why, I’ve preserved him for years!’

  The other crocodile incident concerns ‘Lying Tom’ – brave, merry-faced blue-eyed Tom; bubbling with good humour; overflowing with kindness; and full of the wildest yarns, always good and amusing, but so steep that they made the most case-hardened draw a long breath.

  The name Lying Tom was understood and accepted by everyone in the place, barring Tom himself; for, oddly enough, there was another Tom of the same surname, but no relation, and once when his name cropped up I heard the real Simon Pure refer to him as ‘my namesake – the chap they call Lying Tom’. To the day of his death Tom believed that it was the other Tom who was esteemed the liar.

  Tom was a prospector who ‘came in’ occasionally for supplies or licences; and there came a day when Barberton was convulsed by Lying Tom’s latest.

  He had been walking along the bank of the Crocodile River and, on hearing screams, ran down just in time to see a kaffir woman with a child on her back dragged off through the shallow water by a crocodile. Tom ran in to help – ‘I kicked the dashed thing on the head and in the eyes,’ he said, ‘and punched its ribs and then grabbed the bucket that the woman had in her hand and hammered the blamed thing over the head till it let go. By Jimmy, boys, the woman was in a mess: never saw anyone in such a fright!’

  Poor Tom suffered from consumption in the throat and talked in husky jerks, broken by coughs and laughter. Is there one among them who knew him who does not remember the breezy cheeriness, the indomitable pluck, the merry blue eyes so limpidly clear, the expressive bushy eyebrows and the teeth, too perfect to be wasted on a man, and ever flashing with his unfailing smiles?

  Tom would end up with – ‘Niggers said I was takati: asked for some of my medicine! Blamed niggers; got no pluck: would’ve let the woman go!’

  Of course this story went the rounds as Tom’s latest and best; but one day we turned up in Barberton to deliver our loads, and that evening a whisper went about and men with faces humorously puzzled looked at one another and said: ‘Lying Tom’s a fraud: the crocodile story is true!’

  For our party, shooting guineafowl in the kaffir lands along the river, came upon a kraal where there sat a woman with an arm so scarred and marked that we could not but ask what had caused it. There was no difference in the stories, except that the kaffirs after saying that the white man had kicked the crocodile and beaten it with the bucket, added ‘And he kicked and beat with the bucket the two men who were there, saying that they were not men but dogs, who would not go in and help the woman. But he was bewitched: the crocodile could not touch him!’

  Some of Tom’s stories were truly incredible, but not those in which he figured to advantage: he was too brave a man to have consciously gained credit he did not deserve. He died, slowly starved to death by the cruel disease – the brave, kindly, cheery spirit, smiling unbeaten to the end.

  That was what Jim referred to when he called me to kill the murderer of women and children. It pleased him and others to say that this was the same crocodile; and I believe it was. The locality was the same, and the kraal boys said that it was in the old place from which all its murderous raids had been made; and that was all we knew.

  I took the rifle and went with the herdboy; Jim followed close behind, walking on his toes with the waltzy springy movement of an ostrich, eager to get ahead and repeatedly silenced and driven back by me in the few hundred yards’ walk to the river.

  A queer premonitory feeling came over me as I saw we were making straight for the bathing pool; but before reaching the bank the herdboy squatted down, indicating that somewhere in front and below us the enemy would be found. An easy crawl brought me to the riverbank and, sure enough, on the very spot where I had stood to wash, only fifty yards from us, there was an enormous crocodile. He was lying along the sand-spit with his full length exposed to me. Such a shot would have been a moral certainty, but as I brought the rifle slowly up it may have glinted in the sun, or perhaps the crocodile had been watching us all the time, for with one easy turn and no splash at all he slid into the river and was gone.

  It was very disgusting and I pitched into Jim and the other boys for having made a noise and shown themselves; but they were still squatting when I reached them and vowed they had neither moved nor spoken. We had already turned to go when there came a distant call from beyond the river. To me it was merely a kaffir’s voice and a sound quite meaningless: but to the boys’ trained ears it spoke clearly. Jim pressed me downwards and we all squatted again.

  ‘He is coming out on another sandbank,’ Jim explained.

  Again I crawled to the bank and lay flat, with the rifle ready. There was another sand streak a hundred yards out in the stream with two outcroppings of black rock at the upper end of it – they were rocks right enough, for I had examined them carefully when b
athing. This was the only other sandbank in sight: it was higher than it appeared to be from a distance and the crocodile, whilst hidden from us, was visible to the natives on the opposite bank as it lay in the shallow water and emerged inch by inch to resume its morning sunbath. The crocodile was so slow in showing up that I quite thought it had been scared off again, and I turned to examine other objects and spots up and down the stream; but presently glancing back at the bank again I saw what appeared to be a third rock, no bigger than a loaf of bread. This object I watched until my eyes ached and swam; it was the only possible crocodile; yet it was so small, so motionless, so permanent looking, it seemed absurd to doubt that it really was a stone which had passed unnoticed before.

  As I watched unblinkingly it seemed to grow bigger and again contract with regular swing, as if it swelled and shrank with breathing; and knowing that this must be merely an optical delusion caused by staring too long, I shut my eyes for a minute. The effect was excellent: the rock was much bigger; and after that it was easy to lie still and wait for the cunning old reptile to show himself.

  It took half an hour of this cautious manoeuvring and edging on the part of the crocodile before he was comfortably settled on the sand with the sun warming all his back. In the meantime the waggon boys behind me had not stirred; on the opposite side of the river kaffirs from the neighbouring kraal had gathered to the number of thirty or forty men, women and children, and they stood loosely grouped, instinctively still, silent and watchful, like a little scattered herd of deer. All on both sides were watching me and waiting for the shot. It seemed useless to delay longer; the whole length of the body was showing, but it looked so wanting in thickness, so shallow in fact, that it was evident the crocodile was lying, not on the top, but on the other slope of the sand-spit; and probably not more than six or eight inches – in depth – of body was visible.