Tales of South Africa

It was early dawn, and they were drinking a cup of coffee by the remains of the overnight camp-fire. The sky was just paling in the east, and already the world was astir in this remote wilderness. The hippos were blowing in the river a little below them; long flights of storks were winding through the clear air; multitudes of duck, geese, and other wildfowl were raising their clamour upon the waters. Presently their native hunter crept in from a tour of inspection. “Sieur,” he said, a grin of pleasure upon his keen face, “there’s a big troop of buffalo down there by the water now. They are not far from some bush, and you can get a good shot before they make for the reeds again. And there are some big bulls among them – old fellows with horns so thick!” – spreading out his arms with perhaps a trifle of exaggeration.

“That’s all right, Cobus,” responded Bill Vincent. “We’ll come along at once. How far are they off?”

“Less than a quarter of a mile, Sieur. You can hear them a little way on, trampling and splashing in the shallows. They’re feeding all round there.”

“Capital!” exclaimed Ralph, picking up his double eight-bore and looking through the barrels. “Here, you, Tatenyan, lay hold of that,” handing another native his second rifle. “Be careful, you beggar; it’s loaded.”

Tatenyan grinned an immense grin, and took the rifle.

Accompanied by their two gun-bearers, the white men set off in high spirits. There was plenty of scattered cover between them and the buffalo, principally thorn-bush, and the hunters picked their way as noiselessly as possible, following the lead of Cobus.

A noble koodoo bull, carrying a magnificent pair of spiral horns, stared at them for a second as they entered a grassy clearing, and then with his three cows fled away before them.

But they were after heavier game even than the gallant koodoo, and he went unscathed.

Now they are nearing the buffalo. Beyond the fringe of bush which yet masks them they can hear the great beasts grunting, wallowing, splashing, nay, even hear them plucking the sweet grass that margins the lagoon. The wind, what there is of it, is right in their faces. The game here has scarcely ever yet been disturbed by gunners; they are safe for sport.

Old hands though they are, they now steal breathlessly through the bush. Cobus has resigned the lead, and the two friends stalk in with the greatest care together. At last they peer through a small opening. What a scene lies before them! A troop of at least three hundred mighty buffalo, bulls, cows, and calves, some feeding, some drinking, some rolling in the shallow lagoon, some playfully butting at one another. All, utterly unconscious of impending danger, stand there within a radius of two hundred yards; the nearest of them are within fifty. A more inspiring prospect hunter’s eye never beheld.

Numbers of the weaver birds (Bubalornis erythrorhyncus), always found associating with buffalo, are here, some picking busily at the parasites on the great creatures’ backs; others flitting hither and thither, chattering noisily, intent on business or pleasure. Even the sharp weaver birds detect no enemy – much less their allies the buffaloes. A few white egrets, apparently as fearless of the great quadrupeds as the buffalo birds, add beauty to the scene. Some of these charming herons, too, are perched upon the buffalo, their snowy plumes contrasting sharply with the sombre hides of their gigantic friends. Birds and quadrupeds alike are all void of suspicion upon this bright, quiet morning in the far African wilderness.

Having taken in with an eager glance or two this wonderful picture, the two men and their gun-bearers crouch down behind the thick screen of bush and wait. It seems half an hour to them. At length, in about five minutes, two massive old bulls, grim, heavy-fronted, and carrying immense horns, nearly devoid of hair, short in the legs, yet of tremendous bulk, come feeding past within easy range. The two men glance at one another, and with a nod single out their victims.

On a sudden their heavy rifles roar out together. One of the bulls falls instantly to the shot; the other staggers, but plunges on. There is a terrific commotion among the herd. The great beasts all gallop left-handed, seeking an outlet in the ring of bush. Through the lagoon they splash, driving the water in masses of spray about them, and then away they rave through grass and undergrowth, making the earth thunder beneath them. Bill, whose buffalo has for the moment escaped, selects a fat cow, and with two bullets well planted brings her down. The vast troop has passed away, and they now emerge to inspect their quarry.

The dead buffaloes are fine specimens, and in high condition and, leaving Tatenyan behind to begin the skinning and cutting-up process, the two Englishmen now proceed together with Cobus to take up the blood-spoor of the wounded bull and finish him off. He carries a magnificent pair of horns – a champion head – which Bill yearns to possess himself of.

Cobus, with the marvellous skill of the native African hunter, quickly separates the trail of the wounded beast from its scores of fellows, and presently, as they enter the bush, bears suddenly to the left. The stricken brute has turned him aside from the battle, and the main body of the troop have plunged right-handed through the bush to seek shelter in the dense reed-beds not far away.

At first the blood-spoor, which is now easily followed, takes them through fairly open bush, in which they can see about them without much difficulty. So far all is well. A wounded buffalo is, as all hunters know, the most dangerous and tricky beast in Africa, and in thickish bush his pursuer must needs follow him yard by yard with his life in his hand. Presently the spoor takes them by a narrow game-path through impenetrable thorny covert six or eight feet high. Patches of bright red blood show that the buffalo is bleeding freely, and from the lungs; he cannot go far at this rate. Cobus, who has led the way hitherto, looks at the dark wall of bush on either hand, indicates the deep shade thrown here and there, and the possibility of dangerous ambush at any moment, and shakes his head. He likes the job little enough, and he is perfectly right. To go on is to risk a violent death, and there is little chance of escape from a charge in such confined quarters. But to many Englishmen the constant spice of clanger adds greatly to the charm of sport in Africa. Bill quietly pulls Cobus behind him, knits his brow, and prepares to creep forward. Ralph in his turn supersedes Cobus, and dogs the heels of his friend. It looks like a nasty business, and he wishes them all well out of it; but he can’t now go back on his chum.

Breathlessly, cautiously, they pick their way down the narrow game-path. The dense thicket shuts out every trace of the cool outer breeze; the sun beats down hotly upon their heads; lightly clad though they are, the sweat starts freely from their bodies. Silently they move on. They turn an angle or two, pass safely some dark shadows in the bush-wall, and then, without a fiftieth part of a second of warning, from a piece of bush where you might swear a steinbok could not have hidden itself, a great dark form comes charging forth, with eyes of fire, blood-dripping nostrils, and head well up.

In an instant the revengeful beast has cleared the angle of bush where it had lain silently biding its time, and is almost on top of Bill. Bill fires one shot, – he has no time for more, – and then, to save himself, springs as far to the left as possible. In vain! His bullet glances harmlessly from the tremendous frontal horn of the buffalo without stopping or even injuring the brute. Another half instant and the great grim beast has taken terrible revenge.

There is a single lightning-like sweep of the heavy head, a dull, sickening thud, and Bill is sent crashing into the thorny thicket yards away.

The buffalo stands in devilish wrath for a brief moment, a terrible picture, meditating its next attack; its left chest is exposed.

Ralph instantly seizes his only hope of salvation and poor Bill’s. His eight-bore rifle is at his shoulder, the loud report roars out, and the bull staggers to earth, sore-stricken yet not vanquished. Fiercely he struggles for his feet again, the blood pouring from his mouth and nostrils with the tremendous exertion. In the next instant another bullet, planted in the centre of his forehead, just below the rugged mass of horn, ends his career, and he breathes out his last with that fierce complaining bellow peculiar to the death-throe of his race.

Ralph and the native turn at once to Bill, lying senseless and bleeding, deeply embedded in the frightful mass of thorny bush. It is a tough task even to extricate him; but after some minutes’ hewing and hacking with their hunting knives it is at last accomplished, and the victim is laid tenderly on the smooth game-path.

Alas! his injuries are terrible. Several ribs are displaced and smashed on the right side; there is a deep jagged hole beneath; and the sharp horn, driven with the mighty strength of an old buffalo bull, has penetrated far into the lung. So much is at once apparent, and it looks sadly as if Bill’s hours are numbered.

It is a shocking blow for Ralph. Who could have dreamed that that strong, active man, not yet at his prime, full of pluck, enterprise, and a perennial cheeriness – but ten short minutes before cracking some half-whispered joke to his friend and servant – could now be lying, a battered, senseless rag of humanity, in his comrade’s arms?

As well as they can, the two sound men bind up the gaping wound, and stanch the bleeding, and then, between them, tenderly they carry the still senseless hunter back to camp.

It was but a twenty minutes’ journey, slowly as they progressed, yet to Ralph it seemed long hours.

At last they laid the wounded man gently upon his blankets, beneath the shade of the big thorn tree, washed and carefully bound up his dreadful hurt, poured brandy between his poor bloodstained lips, and then – there was nothing else to be done – awaited the event. It was too far to attempt to convey him across the river to the wagons; the slightest movement greatly increased the bleeding from the mouth, and suffocation seemed imminent. Ralph sent Tatenyan across in a canoe for more brandy; for the rest of that weary, hot African day he could only watch and wait.

Bill lay senseless far into the afternoon, breathing out, as it seemed, slowly and very painfully his remaining stock of life. Towards sunset, he opened his eyes feebly, looked about him, and whispered faintly to Ralph, now bending over him with his eyes full of irrestrainable tears, “Where’s the bull?”

“He’s dead, old chap. I settled him after he struck you. Don’t talk much; I’m afraid you’re very badly hurt.”

“Yes,” went on Bill, “he’s about finished me, I think. I was an idiot to follow him into that bush. Cobus was right. Well, I’ve paid dearly for him. Take his head home, old chap, and hang it up. I don’t think I shall see this through; and when you look at the horns, you will think of me, and the good days we had together in the veldt.”

“Don’t, don’t, Bill,” said Ralph. “For God’s sake don’t talk like that. Who knows? – we may pull you through yet. Lie still, and don’t talk, there’s a dear old chap.”

“My head is clear now,” whispered Bill, “and it mayn’t last long. My affairs are all right at home. If anything happens, see my lawyers. Give my love to Laura (his sister) and Aunt Marion; tell them I thought of them at the end. I feel faint… give me some brandy.” Ralph poured strong brandy and water into the sufferer’s mouth, and he revived again. “One more word, old chap,” went on Bill. “I know I am near the end. I feel it. I shall soon know that great secret we spoke of. Remember this,” – he raised his left hand as he spoke, and feebly took hold of Ralph’s flannel shirt sleeve, – “If I can tell you hereafter, or let you know, I will. Don’t forget! Don’t forget! If I can… It’s dark, isn’t it? and I’m very sleepy. Hold my hand, dear old Ralph… Good-bye. If I don’t see you…”

Bill’s head fell back a little; his eyes closed again; a little blood trickled from his lips; his breathing came and went with yet more effort. Again Ralph administered more brandy to his dying friend. It was of little use. Bill never rallied more. In half an hour the end had come, and Ralph, still holding his friend’s hand within his own, knew that Bill had entered the unknown land, and that he himself had lost the best and bravest comrade that ever entered the hunting veldt.

Ralph took his friend’s body across the river next morning, and buried it reverently beneath a big giraffe-acacia tree by the wagons, and set up a wooden cross in that lone wilderness. He took with him, too, the great horns of the buffalo by which Bill had come to his untimely end. Then slowly and painfully he made his way down-country, the saddest, loneliest man in Africa, and presently reached England.

It is some years ago now, but Ralph has never forgotten that last scene and Bill’s impressive words. Often, whether he be in the far wilderness – to which he still periodically returns – or at home, in the park, or at his club, or in his own sanctum, surrounded by many a goodly spoil of the chase, he thinks of his comrade’s last words, and sees before him every incident of that dying sunset beyond the Okavango River.

But of the Great Secret, – of that mystery which Bill so earnestly desired to pierce, – Ralph has never yet heard.