It was little enough to aim at, and the bullet seemed to strike the top of the bank first, sending up a column of sand, and then, probably knocked all out of shape, ploughed into the body with a tremendous thump.
The crocodile threw a back somersault – that is, it seemed to rear up on its tail and spring backwards; the jaws divided into a huge fork as, for a second, it stood up on end; and it let out an enraged roar, seemingly aimed at the heavens. It was a very sudden and dramatic effect, following on the long silence.
Then the whole world seemed to burst into indescribable turmoil; shouts and yells burst out on all sides; the kaffirs rushed down to the banks – the men armed with sticks and assegais, and the women and children with nothing more formidable than their voices; the crocodile was alive – very much alive – and in the water; the waggon boys, headed by Jim, were all round me and all yelling out together what should or should not be done, and what would happen if we did or did not do it. It was Babel and Bedlam let loose.
With the first plunge the crocodile disappeared, but it came up again ten yards away, thrashing the water into foam and going upstream like a paddle-boat gone reeling roaring mad – if one can imagine such a thing! I had another shot at him the instant he reappeared, but could neither see nor hear where it struck; and again and again I fired whenever he showed up for a second. He appeared to be shot through the lungs; at any rate the kaffirs on the other bank, who were then quite close enough to see, said that it was so. The waggon boys had run down the bank out on to the first sand-spit and I followed them, shouting to the kaffirs opposite to get out of the line of fire, as I could no longer shoot without risk of hitting them.
The crocodile after his first straight dash upstream had tacked about in all directions during the next few minutes, disappearing for short spells and plunging out again in unexpected places. One of these sudden reappearances brought him once more abreast, and quite near to us, and Jim with a fierce yell and with his assegai held high dashed into the water, going through the shallows in wild leaps. I called to him to come back, but against his yells and the excited shouts of the ever-increasing crowd my voice could not live; and Jim, mad with excitement, went on. Twenty yards out, where increasing depth steadied him, he turned for a moment and seeing himself alone in the water called to me with eager confidence, ‘Come on, Baas.’
It had never occurred to me that anyone would be such an idiot as to go into water after a wounded crocodile. There was no need to finish off this one, for it was bound to die and no one wanted the meat or skin. Who, then, would be so mad as to think of such a thing? Five minutes earlier I would have answered very confidently for myself; but there are times when one cannot afford to be sensible. There was a world of unconscious irony in Jim’s choice of words, ‘Come on!’ and ‘Baas!’
The boy giving the lead to his master was too much for me; and in I went!
I cannot say that there was much enjoyment in it for the first few moments – not until the excitement took hold and all else was forgotten. The first thing that struck me was that in the deep water my rifle was worth no more than a walking stick, and not nearly as useful as an assegai; but what drove this and many other thoughts from my mind in a second was the appearance of Jock on the stage and his sudden jump into the leading place.
In the first confusion he had passed unnoticed, probably at my heels as usual, but the instant I answered Jim’s challenge by jumping into the water he gave one whimpering yelp of excitement and plunged in too; and in a few seconds he had outdistanced us all and was leading straight for the crocodile. I shouted to him, of course in vain – he heard nothing; and Jim and I plunged and struggled along to head the dog off.
As the crocodile came up Jock went straight for him -his eyes gleaming, his shoulders up, his nose out, his neck stretched to the utmost in his eagerness – and he ploughed along straining every muscle to catch up. When the crocodile went under he slackened and looked anxiously about, but each fresh rise was greeted by the whimpering yelps of intense suppressed excitement as he fairly hoisted himself out of the water with the vigour of his swimming.
The water was now breast-high for us, and we were far out in the stream, beyond the sand-spit where the crocodile had lain, when the kaffirs on the bank got their first chance and a flight of assegais went at the enemy as he rose. Several struck and two remained in him; he rose again a few yards from Jim, and that sportsman let fly one that struck home well. Jock, who had been toiling close behind for some time, and gaining slowly, was not five yards off then; the floundering and lashing of the crocodile were bewildering, but he went on as grimly and eagerly as ever. I fired again – not more than eight yards away – but the water was then up to my arms, and it was impossible to pick a vital part; the brain and neck were the only spots to finish him, but one could see nothing beyond a great upheaval of water and clouds of spray and bloodstained foam.
The crocodile turned from the shot and dived upstream, heading straight for Jock: the din of yelling voices stopped instantly as the huge open-mouthed thing plunged towards the dog; and for one sick horrified moment I stood and watched – helpless.
Had the crocodile risen in front of Jock that would have been the end – one snap would have done it; but it passed clear underneath and, coming up just beyond him, the great lashing tail sent the dog up with the column of water a couple of feet in the air. He did as he had done when the kudu bull tossed him: his head was round straining to get at the crocodile before he was able to turn his body in the water; and the silence was broken by a yell of wild delight and approval from the bank.
Before us the water was too deep and the stream too strong to stand in; Jim in his eagerness had gone in shoulder-high, and my rifle when aimed only just cleared the water. The crocodile was the mark for more assegais from the bank as it charged upstream again, with Jock tailing behind, and it was then easy enough to follow its movements by the shafts that were never all submerged. The struggles became perceptibly weaker and, as it turned again to go with the stream, every effort was concentrated on killing and landing it before it reached the rocks and rapids.
I moved back for higher ground and, finding that the bed shelved up rapidly downstream, made for a position where there would be enough elevation to put in a brain shot. The water was not more than waist-high then, and as the crocodile came rolling and thrashing down I waited for his head to show up clearly. My right foot touched a sloping rock which rose almost to the surface of the water close above the rapids, and anxious to get the best possible position for a last shot, I took my stand there. The rock was the ordinary shelving bedrock, uptilted at an easy angle and cut off sheer on the exposed side, and the wave in the current would have shown this to anyone not wholly occupied with other things; but I had eyes for nothing except the crocodile which was then less than a dozen yards off, and in my anxiety to secure a firm footing for the shot I moved the right foot again a few inches – over the edge of the rock. The result was as complete a spill as if one unthinkingly stepped backwards off a diving board: I disappeared in deep water, with the knowledge that the crocodile would join me there in a few seconds.
One never knows how these things are done or how long they take: I was back on the rock – without the rifle – and the water out of my eyes in time to see the crocodile roll helplessly by, six feet away, with Jock behind making excited but ridiculously futile attempts to get hold of the tail; Jim – swimming, plunging and blowing like a maddened hippo – formed the tail of the procession, which was headed for my waterlogged hat, floating heavily a yard or so in front of the crocodile.
While the crowd of yelling niggers under the generalship of Jim were landing the crocodile, I had time to do some diving and managed to fish out my rifle.
My Sunday change was wasted. But we got the old crocodile; and that was something, after all.
The Fighting Baboon
On the way to Lydenburg, not many treks from Paradise Camp, we were outspanned for the day. Those were the settle
d parts; on the hills and in the valleys about us were the widely scattered workings of the gold-diggers or the white tents of occasional prospectors.
The place was a well known and much frequented public outspan, and a fair-sized wayside store marked its importance. After breakfast we went to the store to ‘swap’ news with the men on the spot and a couple of horsemen who had off saddled there.
There were several other houses of sorts; they were rough wattle and daub erections which were called houses, as an acknowledgement of pretensions expressed in the rectangular shape and corrugated iron roof. One of these belonged to Seedling, the Field Cornet and only official in the district. He was the petty local Justice who was supposed to administer minor laws, collect certain revenues and taxes and issue passes. The salary was nominal, but the position bristled with opportunities for one who was not very particular; and the then occupant of the office seemed well enough pleased with the arrangement, whatever the public may have thought of it.
He was neither popular nor trusted: many tales of great harshness and injustice to the natives, and of corruption and favouritism in dealing with the whites, added to habitual drunkenness and uncertain temper, made a formidable tally in the account against him; he was also a bully and a coward, and all knew it; but unfortunately he was the law – as it stood for us!
Seedling, although an official of the Boer Government, was an Englishman; there were several of them on the goldfields in those days, and for the most part, they were good fellows and good officials – this one was an exception. We all knew him personally: he was effusively friendly; and we suffered him and – paid for the drinks. That was in his public capacity: in his private capacity he was the owner of the fighting baboon of evil and cruel repute.
If ever fate’s instruments moved unconscious of their mission and the part they were to play, it is certain that Jock and Jim Makokel’ did so that day – the day that was the beginning of Seedling’s fall and end.
It is not very clear how the trouble began. We had been sitting on the little store-counter and talking for over an hour, a group of half a dozen, swapping off the news of the goldfields and the big world against that from Delagoa and the Bushveld; Seedling had joined us early and, as usual, began the morning with drinks. We were not used to that on the road, or out hunting; indeed, we rarely took any drink, and most of us never touched a drop except in the towns. The transport-rider had opportunities which might easily become temptations – the load often consisting of liquor, easy to broach and only to be paid for at the end of the trip; but we had always before us the lesson of the failures. Apart from this, however, we did not take liquor because we could not work as well or last as long, run as fast or shoot as straight, if we did. And that was reason enough!
We had one round of drinks which was ‘called’ by one of the horsemen, and then, to return the compliment, another round called by one of us. A few minutes later Seedling announced effusively that it was his ‘shout’. But it was only ten in the morning and those who had taken spirits had had enough; indeed, several had only taken a sip of the second round in order to comply with a stupid and vicious custom; I would not and could not attack another bottle of sour gingerbeer; and thus Seedling’s round was reduced to himself and the proprietor. No man however thirsty would drink alone in those days – it was taken as a mark of meanness or evidence of ‘soaking’ – and the proprietor had to be ready at any time to ‘take one for the good of the house’.
A quarter of an hour passed and Seedling, who had said nothing since his ‘shout’ was declined, turned away and strolled out, with hands thrust deep in the pockets of his riding breeches and a long heavy sjambok dangling from one wrist. There was silence as he moved through the doorway, and when the square patch of sunlight on the earth floor was again unbroken the man behind the counter remarked: ‘Too long between drinks for him! Gone for a pull at the private bottle.’
‘Is that how it’s going?’
‘Yah! all day long. Drinks here as long as anyone’ll call, but don’t do much shoutin’ on his own, I tell you! That’s the first time I seen him call for a week. He wanted to get you chaps on the go, I reckon. He’ll be wrong all day today. I know him!’
‘Cost him two bob for nothing, eh!’
‘Well, it ain’t so much that; ye see, he reckoned you’d all shout your turns, and drinks’d come regular; but he sees you’re not on. Twig? I’m not complainin’, mind you – Lord no! He don’t pay anyway! It’s all ‘chalked up’ for him, an’ I got to wipe it off the slate when the next loads comes and he collects my customs duties. His liquor’s took him wrong today – you’ll see!’
We did see; and that before very long. We had forgotten Seedling, and were hearing all about the new finds reported from Barberton district, when one of the waggon boys came running into the store calling to me by my kaffir name and shouting excitedly, ‘Baas, Baas! come quickly! The baboon has got Jock: it will kill him!’
I had known all about the vicious brute, and had often heard of Seedling’s fiendish delight in arranging fights or enticing dogs up to attack it for the pleasure of seeing the beast kill the overmatched dogs. The dog had no chance at all, for the baboon remained out of reach in his house on the pole as long as it chose, if the dog was too big or the opening not a good one, and made its rush when it would tell best. But apart from this the baboon was an exceptionally big and powerful one, and it is very doubtful if any dog could have tackled it successfully in an open fight. The creature was as clever as even they can be; its enormous jaws and teeth were quite equal to the biggest dog’s and it had the advantage of four ‘hands’. Its tactics in a fight were quite simple and most effective: with its front feet it caught the dog by the ears or neck, holding the head so that there was no risk of being bitten, and then gripping the body lower down with its hind feet, it tore lumps out of the throat, breast and stomach – pushing with all four feet and tearing with terrible teeth. The poor dogs were hopelessly outmatched.
I did not see the beginning of Jock’s encounter, but the boys’ stories pieced together told everything. It appears that when Seedling left the store he went into his own hut and remained there some little time; on coming out again he strolled over to the baboon’s pole about halfway between the two houses and began teasing it, throwing pebbles at it to see it dodge and duck behind the pole, and then flicking at it with the sjambok, amused by its frightened and angry protests. While he was doing this, Jock, who had followed me to the store, strolled out again, making his way towards the waggons. He was not interested in our talk; he had twice been accidentally trodden on by men stepping back as he lay stretched out on the floor behind them; and doubtless he felt that it was no place for him: his deafness prevented him from hearing movements, except such as caused vibration in the ground and, poor old fellow, he was always at a disadvantage in houses and towns.
The baboon had then taken refuge in its box on top of the pole to escape the sjambok, and when Seedling saw Jock come out he commenced whistling and calling softly to him. Jock, of course, heard nothing: he may have responded mildly to the friendly overtures conveyed by the extended hand and patting of legs, or more probably simply took the nearest way to the waggon where he might sleep in peace, since there was nothing else to do. What the boys agree on is that as Jock passed the pole Seedling patted and held him, at the same time calling the baboon, and then gave the dog a push which did not quite roll him over but upset his balance; and Jock, recovering himself, naturally jumped round and faced Seedling, standing almost directly between him and the baboon. He could not hear the rattle of the chain on the box and pole, and saw nothing of the charging brute, and it was the purest accident that the dog stood a few inches out of reach. The baboon – chained by the neck instead of the waist, because it used to bite through all loinstraps – made its rush, but the chain brought it up before its hand could reach Jock and threw the hindquarters round with such force against him that he was sent rolling yards away.
I can well
believe that this second attack from a different and wholly unexpected quarter thoroughly roused him, and can picture how he turned to face it.
It was at this moment that Jim first noticed what was going on. The other boys had not expected anything when Seedling called the dog, and they were taken completely by surprise by what followed. Jim would have known what to expect: his kraal was in the neighbourhood; he knew Seedling well, and had already suffered in fines and confiscations at his hands; he also knew about the baboon; but he was ignorant, just as I was, of the fact that Seedling had left his old place across the river and come to live in the new hut, bringing his pet with him.
It was the hoarse threatening shout of the baboon as it jumped at Jock, as much as the exclamations of the boys, that roused Jim. He knew instantly what was on, and grabbing a stick made a dash to save the dog, with the other boys following him.
When Jock was sent spinning in the dust the baboon recovered itself first, and standing up on its hindlegs reached out its long ungainly arms towards him, and let out a shout of defiance. Jock regaining his feet dashed in, jumped aside, feinted again and again, as he had learned to do when big horns swished at him; and he kept out of reach just as he had done ever since the duiker taught him the use of its hoofs. He knew what to do, just as he had known how to swing the porcupine: the dog – for all the fighting fury that possessed him – took the measure of the chain and kept outside it. Round and round he flew, darting in, jumping back, snapping and dodging, but never getting right home. The baboon was as clever as he was: at times it jumped several feet in the air, straight up, in the hope that Jock would run underneath; at others, it would make a sudden lunge with the long arms, or a more surprising reach out with the hindlegs to grab him. Then the baboon began gradually to reduce its circle, leaving behind it slack chain enough for a spring; but Jock was not to be drawn. In cleverness they were well matched – neither scored in attack; neither made or lost a point.
Jock of the Bushveld Page 31