3. His fox hunts were some of the best in the country. He would dress the creatures up in outrageous costumes, sometimes as politicians or ladies, sometimes as monks, once or twice as the very pope.
4. Emma was a small woman. Yellow. She was a small woman. Her skin was yellowish.
5. On his estate he caught a poacher, a peasant who had killed a prime stag, and he had the man sewn up in the skin of the animal, and torn to pieces by his pack of hounds made savage by being starved for seventy-two hours.
6. He had a wonderful collection of hunting dogs: basset hounds; a pair of Wirehaired Pointing Griffons purchased from the Dutch breeder E.K. Korthals; Hungarian Vizslas, golden-red and silky; an Alpine Dachsbracke, short-legged and sturdy, which he had received as a gift from Crown Prince Rudolf of Habsburg; longhaired pointers, Münsterländers; and Irish water spaniels, with long ears covered with dark curls, and curls covering their eyes.
V.
An Extract from the Memoirs of Captain Gareth Caernarvon:
My companion was Sir Bruce Roscommon, who was then still in his early manhood, and had not yet succumbed to those brutal vices which were to blight his later life and have left such a gross stain on his once noble character. We had a bodyguard of thirty camel-men, whom I had armed with Lee Enfield rifles. I myself was carrying a Webley double-action revolver, a Mannlicher rifle and, most importantly, a Marlin .45-70 repeating rifle, weighing about 11 pounds and having a 28-inch octagonal barrel.
For four weeks we travelled at a speed of about twenty miles a day, that being as great a distance as a caravan of fully-loaded camels—each carrying around two-hundred pounds of provisions, tents and general gear—can manage. We crossed an extent of arid country, toiled among cliffs and rocky wastes, and then, entering an area more luxuriant, finally halted at the edge of a natural basin filled with muddy water and surrounded by rank-smelling shrubs.
Isibili-Ikhanda-Umkhobe, the two-headed rhino, had been spotted in that area some months before. The natives looked around themselves with wary reverence and mumbled prayers to their devilish gods. I opened a bottle of Linkwood whisky and offered Roscommon a toast to the kill.
Every morning, after breakfasting on strong black coffee and dried ox meat, we struck out, each in his own direction, in search of the tracks of the giant pachyderm. I was particularly intent on putting to death that thick-skinned, heavily built animal, for I dearly wanted such a head for my collection.
The temperatures were frightful. The thermometer rarely went below 110 Fahrenheit while the sun was up. Though I had not yet seen sign of the beast I was looking for, there was still light game: I killed a Barbary lion, warthogs and wildebeests; so our camp had an abundance of fresh meat and for dinner we had delightful stews and then conversed under the stars over our pipes and cups.
One evening, about three hours before sundown, while making my way through a portion of mimosa forest, I came across the fresh tracks of a rhinoceros as well as, to my delight, a goodly portion of its pungent and smoking spoor. The wind was favourable, blowing toward me from the direction in which the animal was moving; and it was apparent that the three-toed impressions in the earth had been made recently, probably within the last hour. My boots were rubber-soled, the terrain I went over flat and soft, generally padded with thick grasses, excellent ground cover. My gait was noiseless. Slowly, patiently I made my way along. I crept around a thicket and there, in a clearing which opened up before me, stood the great brute, about forty yards away, its magnificent hind-quarters proned in my direction. It began to turn and I kneeled. One of its heads was gigantic, its nose capped with an exciting horn, while the other head, which grew out of the former’s neck, was small and somewhat sickly looking.
I hastily drew a bead upon its chest, squeezed the trigger and let off a bullet. It was an ugly shot, lodging itself in the quarry’s flesh without doing adequate damage, and I felt ashamed. The rhinoceros snorted, rose to its feet and turned towards me, levelling its horns and pawing the earth. Then it came surging forward. My life was in peril. Coolly and quickly I set myself up for another blast; looked along the barrel, took aim at the larger head and fired. The shot was fine. The bullet landed square between its eyes. The beast swerved off, and began to break through the forest. Then its legs weakened and it came crashing to the earth. I approached. The rhino writhed on the ground in agony, hot blood spurting from its wound. The smaller head squealed, let out a bleating whistle, and I drank in its cries of pain, for they were as sweet to me as a cool glass of champagne. I then shoved my gun into the mouth of the smaller head and gave it a coup-de-grace, bits of its brain flying out, regurgitating, and dirtying my pants leg.
Smoothing my moustaches I looked down at the animal. There was some unfortunate damage to the skulls, but I, an admirable taxidermist, would still see them nicely mounted.
That evening Roscommon and myself enjoyed delightful umkhobe steaks, to the dismay of the natives.
V.
“It is a lovely gown.”
“Yes, I got it for him when I was last in London,” Emma said, and took a sip of her tea.
The velvet curtains cascaded down on either side of the panes of glass, making a pretty frame for: green sward, the captain thereon, in feminine attire: an iridescent, two-piece bronze gown. The bodice had a high detachable collar in cream-coloured silk, as well as a large cream-coloured inset which formed a ‘V’ from navel to throat. The upper portion of the skirt had horizontal ruching with vertical bands of cloth-covered buttons and eight box-pleats, accented with banding and buttons, giving it fullness as it approached the hemline.
———
He wore a corset, experiencing a most pleasurable sensation in being laced tight.
VI.
Sir Bruce Roscommon, the wrinkled flesh of his face ghastly, livid, sat in the restaurant of the Grand Hôtel du Monde drinking a whisky and water and smoking a cigarette. “Caernarvon had the finest collection of stag antlers existent,” he said, in a powerful but muddy voice. “All sorts of precious branches of horn, not only that he had secured with his own gun, but historical pieces as well. . . . A damned fine head of a stag shot by Duchess Magdalen of Saxony during the rutting season of 1656. . . . The beast must have come in close upon six hundredweight. . . . A really exceptional twenty-six pointer, such as few men have had the chance at. . . . Yes, those women of old certainly knew how to bring an animal to grass. . . . I don’t know what happened to the collection. . . . I suppose his people had them donated to a museum or something of the sort. . . . Maybe sold at auction for all I know.”
Roscommon took a long drink of his whisky and water. “Caernarvon was an interesting man,” he continued. “In my youth I admired him greatly. . . . But we had a falling out about something or other; though I don’t quite remember what. . . . I suppose he did not approve of my mode of life. . . . And I was not willing to live by another man’s system of honour. . . . It was all a bunch of nonsense really. A stupid sacrifice.”
VII.
He sat over his pipe. The floor of his study was covered with exotic animal hides, those of tigers and bears, and heads, marvels of taxidermy (gaping jaws, cold glass eyes), and weapons of all sorts were mounted on the walls: silver-hilted swords, outrageous scimitars, Spanish dirks and Russian Kindjals. A beautiful mace, made by the hands of Diego de Caias. Incredible helmets, in iron, gold and silver, shaped as fish, horrible demons. Gun racks: a combination matchlock and flintlock signed François Duclos; an unusual pneumatic canegun made of black laquered brass with a floral-embossed brass pommel and a hidden pop-out button-trigger; a 12 bore percussion shotgun by John Rigby of Dublin & c. & c.
There was a knock.
“Come in!”
The large oak door, which was flanked by two enormous elephant tusks, opened. It was Emma.
“The dress,” she said.
“Yes?”
“I have finished adjusting it.”
“Oh!” Caernarvon rose from his chair.
“I set it out on your bed
.”
“Then I will see.” The captain set down his pipe and strode forward.
“Would you like some help trying it on?”
“My dear girl, if I want help I will ask for it,” he said and exited.
Emma. I have dreamed so very much.
Head of a Buffalo. Is all she does is dream.
Russian Kindjal. We have all seen it.
Emma. Sigh.
Tiger Skin Rug. Will she weep?
Pistol. Oh, yes. She’ll weep.
Head of a Buffalo. No. Her eyes are too small.
[Emma weeps.
Tiger Skin Rug. She’s crying.
Russian Kindjal. But I don’t see any tears.
Head of a Buffalo. Her eyes are too small.
VIII.
In his lifetime he killed an enormous number of animals, as can be ascertained from his punctiliously kept shooting diary: 1,214 stags (34 of which were twenty points and upward), 2,129 red deer (985 of which were fourteen points and upward), 4,012 wild boar, 19 bears, 214 wolves, 11 beavers, 16 owls, 4 falcons, 2,314 vultures, 54 baboons, 2 marmosets, 1 gibbon, 218 hedgehogs, 415 badgers, 617 otters, 501 alligators, 1,107 crocodiles, 1 bongo, 74 bush pigs, 84 giraffes, 119 roan antelope, & c. & c. & c.
———
. . . dipnets, baskettraps, stonetraps, weirs, hooks and lines, rakes and spears.
*
A bait for catching pout:
2 parts Cheshire cheese
2 parts hog’s blood
1 part anise seed
1 part crushed bombardier beetle
2 parts galbanum
1 part balsamic vinegar.
*
He had whaled, sunk his fist into the deep blubber of the beast.
*
Woodsmanship; scouting. He caught animals with baits of meat and smells, by blowing on whistles, appealing to their love instincts and other frauds. (Hear him gobble like a turkey.) In deep-dug pits filled with pointed stakes he caught elephants. Spring-traps for wild pigs; nooses for wild fowl; caltrops to catch the fawn. Ambush and stalking (deductions from a broken twig, from the faintest mark in the sand). When hunting with dogs, he kept a bitch’s fecund member in his coat pocket, and this stopped them from barking. Then: BANG! His gun would scream out: blood-flecked branches and blood soaked earth. . . . . . .
. . . . . . . [Lions, leopards, lynxes, panthers] bleating goat as bait bait of beef lungs. . . .
. . . . . . . . . loved he loved to chew the meat of all creatures: of bears and boars of weasels and all sorts of birds: sparrows, hawks, robins, magpies and storks. The need for meat. The need need man’s need for meat blood spurting fountain in screams of ape meat bush lizard chimpanzee bush meat. Two rows of white teeth tear. Bush meat wild cat creatures roasted ribs flesh half-burnt half-raw meat bush plucking out elephants’ embryos eye of jackal stewing pot of hippopotamus rip and dig through pain-bright crimson. He wished to net up the fish from the sea and have dead birds rain from the sky. . . . . . . Sometimes he would, in imitation of the Sioux Indians, don a wolf or other animal skin robe, and quietly sneak up on an animal and kill it kill slaughterous obsession dress in pastels pink gown hose kill snatch life power fire guns cut with knife or skewer with harpoon big fish flying bird then those who slither land those live in prairies those meadows see them crumple under gunblasts collapse down dead lovely kill slaughterous flowers perfume of slaughter music-glory of hunt with bow and arrow he could kill. In Australia he hunted like a bushman, dipping his arrows in beetle poison, euphorbia, snake venom or the reddish-yellow caterpillar called ngwa, prepared into a cardiotoxic poison looking like currant jelly.
IX.
October. Emma stood on the lawn. Sad eyes. She wore a velvet gown. An apple was balanced on her head.
“Stand still!” Caernarvon cried. “We don’t want to miss now, do we?”
“Yes, dear. I am trying to stay very still.”
He held up the Belgian breechloading needlefire target pistol, a Montigny & Fusnot, grasped tight the fluted grip and took aim. Squeeze trigger. PAN!
The gun went off; woman fell to ground.
“Damned lousy shot!” Caernarvon growled.
The apple was undamaged, but Emma had a bullet in her skull. Her soul flew out from her body. It hovered nearby for a moment, observing the form in which she had lived, and the husband with whom she had bedded, and then rushed off to the nearby forest where two deer were rutting. The buck’s neck was swollen with lust. Having mounted the creature’s semen, the soul of Emma entered the hot womb of the oestrous doe. There she stayed warm throughout the winter and later, in June of the following year, was reborn as a fawn. She lived in the forest, eating its grasses, drinking from its cool, melodious brooks, and grew strong and beautiful.
Caernarvon came. Armed as always. In search of meat. She was grazing, chewing grass. When she lifted her head the rifle flashed. The hind fell to the ground, a ball through its brain. Caernarvon approached the downed animal. He removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves. After turning the carcass over on its back with the rump lower than the shoulders, he pulled out his knife and cut the animal’s throat, bled it. Then, cutting through the hide, he opened up the body cavity and cut out the lungs and the tender heart. He skinned it while the flesh was still warm and that night enjoyed the venison.
X.
“. . . So there was nothing for it but to eat him,” Jefferies continued, with a gesture of manly resignation. “Nastiest damned dinner I ever did try.”
“That is what you get for eating a Frenchy,” Caernarvon said from behind the smoke of his cigar. “I would rather have one good stout Englishman in my larder than a dozen Frenchmen.”
Jefferies smiled thinly. After three arduous years in the deepest jungles of South America, he could not help but hope for a bit more respect when retiring to his gentlemen’s club for a bit of sanitary relaxation.
The waiter came with a tray on which was set a decanter of whisky and glasses. It was Lieutenant–Colonel Reginald Wroth, of the Royal Marines, who did the honours and handed the drinks around.
Jefferies shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, come now,” he said. “God created all men alike—and I would think to eat one is as unpleasant as the next.”
“One as unpleasant as the next? Why, not in the least. A good piece of English meat is never unpleasant. . . . It was when I was stationed in Egypt, under Sir Garnet Wolseley, that I first tried it. . . . A number of us were stationed at a desert outpost between Qasr al-Farafirah and Sitrah. . . . Though at the time I am actually speaking of, we were only two,—myself and a young corporal by the name of Tub. . . . The rest of the battalion had had some bad luck. . . . Russian roulette and all that sort of thing. . . . Damned game was all the rage back then and I was fortunate enough to routinely come up the winner. . . . The corporal was there because his religious obligations had not permitted him to indulge in games of chance.”
“Sounds like a wearisome fellow,” a voice murmured from the depths of an armchair.
“Yes,” added Wroth, “I remember when I was stationed in India back in ’92, we used to play Russian roulette with fireworks—seeing who could hold the things in their mouths till the fuse ran shortest, and it was rather fine fun.”
Caernarvon smirked with a hint of disdain, took a drink of his whisky and continued.
“Well, the corporal was not what you would call lively company, but he was a good enough sort with a rifle. . . . When the rebels came I believe he shot the heads off a solid six brace. Disposed of them in a workmanlike manner we did. . . . A spirited enough little party we were having, shooting them from the fortification walls, and I believe we could have kept it up all summer if we had not unfortunately run out of provisions.”
“Didn’t you have any biscuits?”
“None.”
“Well, that is bloody criminal. It is the army’s obligation to provide——”
“Oh, settle down will you! Let’s not start hearing any sniping of that sort.”<
br />
“Yes,” added Jefferies calmly. “I would like to hear the rest of the Captain’s little tale.”
“Well, to cut a long story short—I am a man who needs meat. We had eaten every rat in the place, and there were only two pieces of flesh left: myself and Tub. ‘Flip for it will you?’ I said;—but he insisted that he would not gamble. So be it. I sawed off his arm with my clasp knife and cauterised the wound with a flaming stick. The limb I roasted over the fire, seasoning it with a little gunpowder. I’ll be damned if it wasn’t the finest piece of flesh I had eaten since I disembarked at Alexandria. . . . Tub admittedly was a bit pale while dining, and did not seem to relish the meal as well as myself.”
XI.
The animals knew that he was their enemy. Elephant mothers cursed him for slaughtering their children and, when he approached, even wolves, with their keen sense of smell, fled away in fear. The serpents often considered how best they might assassinate him. Cobras were sent to plunge their fangs into his thigh, and huge boas to strangle him, but he, like some great king, always seemed to be able to foil their plots.
Rattlesnake. He smashed my brother’s skull in with a stick.
Tiger. He is strong and difficult to kill. He shoots my kin and strips us of our skins.
Grouse. When he comes my sisters tremble. I tell them to keep still, but in panic they fly off and come falling to the earth, soft bloodied balls.
Rattlesnake. . . . If I could shoot him full of venom . . .
Tiger. . . . If I could shred him with my claws . . .
Elephant. My tusks could gore him.
Grouse. My grandfather told me that man is most difficult to kill, even for condor or eagle, and prophesied ten-million massacres for our kind.
XII.
New Guinea. Incessant rain. He was there to hunt the tree kangaroo. Bang bang hunting wet but good. And then they came. Some with bone through nose. They lashed him to a pole and carried him off, horizontally, back to their village. Women dressed in banana leaves. The children played with him, jabbed him with sharp sticks, threw stones. The chief wore a necklace of seashells about his throat. When the weather cleared time to eat.
The Life of Polycrates and Other Stories for Antiquated Children Page 11
