 Chapter 23 of Jock of the Bushfield. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Sally McConnell in Bettys Bay, South Africa in January 2010. Jock of the Bushfield by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick. Chapter 23 The Fighting Baboon. On the way to Leidenburg, not many tricks from Paradise Camp, we were outspanned for the day. Those were the settled parts. On the hills and in the valleys about us were the widely scattered working 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 all saddled there. There were several other houses of sorts. There 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 her bitual 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 gold fields 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 McElkel 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 stall counter and talking for over an hour, a group of half a dozen, swapping off the news of the gold fields and the big world against that from Delegor and the Bushfield. 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 always had 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 his 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 effusibly that it was his shot. But it was only ten in the morning and those who had taken spurts 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 ginger beer 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 past and Seedling who had said nothing since his shot was declined turned away and strolled out with his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his riding breaches and a long heavy shambok 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? Yeah, all day long. Drinks here as long as anyone will call but don't do much shouting on his own I tell you. That's the first time I've 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 too Bob for nothing eh? Well it ain't so much that you see. He reckoned you'd shout your turns and drinks had come regular but he sees you're not on. Twig? I'm not complaining mind you lord no. He don't pay any way. It's all chalked up for him and I got to wipe it off the sleight when the next load 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'd forgotten seedling and we're hearing all about the new finds reported from Barbaton district when one of the wagon boys came running into the store calling to me by my cafe name and shouting excitedly. Bass! Bass! 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 dogs 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 the hind feet had tall lumps out of the throat, breast and stomach, pushing with all four feet and tearing with the 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 shambok 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 wagons. 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, dartless, 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 shambok 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 wagon 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 loin straps, made its rush, but the chain boarded up before its hands could reach jock and through the hindquarters round was such force against him that he was sent rolling yards away. I can well believe that the 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 crawl 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 horse-threatening shot of the baboon as it jumped at jock as much as the exclamations of the boys that arised 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 hind legs reached out with its long ungainly arms towards him and let out a shot of defiance. Joch regaining his feet dashed in, jumped aside, fainted again and again as he had learnt to do when big orn switched at him, and he kept out of reach just as he had done ever since the dike had 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 joch would run underneath. At others it would make a sudden lunge with the long arms or a more surprising reach out with the hind legs to grab him. Then the baboon began gradually to reduce its circle, leaving behind its slack chain enough for a spring. But joch was not to be drawn. In cleverness they were well matched, neither scored an attack, neither made or lost a point. When Jim rushed up to save joch it was with eager, anxious shouts of the dog's name that warned seedling and made him turn, and as the boy ran forward the white man stepped out to stop him. Leave the dog alone! he said, pale with anger. Pass! Pass! The dog will be cute! Jim called excitedly as he tried to get round. But the white man made a jump towards him and with a backhand slash of the shambox struck him across the face, shouting at him again. Leave him, I tell you! Jim jumped back, thrusting out his stick to guard another vicious cut. And so it went on with alternate slash and guard, and the big zulu danced round with nimble bounds guarding, dodging or bearing the shambox cuts to save the dog. Seedling was mad with rage, for who had ever heard of a nigger standing up to a field cornet? Still Jim would not give way. He kept trying to get in front of joch to hit him off the fight and all the while shouting to the other boys to call me. But seedling was the field cornet and not one of them dared to move against him. At last the baboon finding that joch would not come on tried other tactics. It made a sudden retreat and rushing for the pole hid behind it as for protection. Joch made a jump and the baboon lept out to meet him, but the dog stopped at the chain's limit and the baboon, just as in the first dash of all, overshot the mark. It was brought up by the jerk of the collar and for one second sprawled on its back. That was the first chance for joch, and he took it. With one spring he was in, his head shot between the baboon's hind legs and with his teeth buried in the soft stomach he lay back and pulled, pulled for dear life as he had pulled and dragged on the legs of wounded game, tugged as he had tugged at the porcupine, held on as he had held on when the cwdu bull wrenched and strained every bone and muscle in his body. Then came the sudden turn. As joch fastened onto the baboon dragging taught the chain while the screaming brood struggled on its back, seedling stood for a second irresolute and then with a stride forward raised his shambok to strike the dog. That was too much for Jim. He made a spring in and grasping the raised shambok with his left hand held seeding powerless while in his right hand the boy raised his stick on guard. Let him fight, boss! You said it! Let the dog fight! He panted horse with excitement. The white man, livid with fury, struggled and kicked but the wrist loop of the shambok held him prisoner and he could do nothing. That was the moment when a panic-stricken boy plucked up the courage enough to call me, and that was the scene we saw as we ran out of the little shop. Jim would not strike the white man but his face was a muddy grey and it was written there that he would rather die than give up the dog. Before I reached him it was clear to us all what had happened. Jim was protesting to seedling and at the same time calling to me it was a jumble but a jumble eloquent enough for us and all intelligible. Jim's excited gavel was addressed with reckless incoherence to seedling, to me and to joch. You threw him in. You tried to kill him. He did it. It was not the dog. Kill him, joch. Kill him. Leave him. Let him fight. You said it. Let him fight. Kill him, joch. Kill, kill, kill. Then seedling did the worst thing possible. He turned on me with, call off your dog, I tell you, or I'll shoot him and your nigger too. We'll see about that. They can fight it out now, and I took the shambok from Jim's hand and cut it from the white man's wrist. Now stand back. And he stood back. The baboon was quite helpless. Powerful as the brute was and formidable as were the arms and gripping feet, it had no chance while Jock could keep his feet and had strength to drag and hold the chain tight. The collar was choking it, and the grip on the stomach, the baboon's own favourite and most successful device, was fatal. I set my teeth and thought of the poor helpless dogs that had been decoyed in and treated the same way. Jim danced about, the white seam of froth on his lips, horse gusts of encouragement bursting from him as he leant over Jock and his whole body vibrating like an overheated boiler. And Jock hung on in grim earnest. The silence on his side broken only by grunting efforts as the deadly tug, tug, tug went on. Each paw caused his feet to slip a little on the smooth-worn ground, but each time he set them back again and the grunting tugs went on. It was not justice to call Jock off, but I did it. The cruel brute deserved killing, but the human look and cries and behaviour of the baboon were too sickening, and seedling went into his hut without even a look at his stricken champion. Jock stood off with his mouth open from ear to ear and his red tongue dangling, bloodstained and panting. But with eager feet ever on the move shifting from spot to spot, ears going back and forward and eyes now on the baboon and now on me pleading for the sign to go in again. Before evening the baboon was dead. The day's excitement was too much for Jim. After singing and dancing himself into a frenzy-ran Jock, after shartling the whole story of the fight in violent and insistent gavel over and over again to those who had witnessed it, after making every ear ring and every head swim with his mad din, he grabbed his sticks once more and made off for one of the crawls, there to find drink for which he thirsted, body and soul. In the afternoon the sudden scattering of the inhabitants of a small crawl on the hillside opposite and some lusty sharting drew attention that way. At distances of from two to five hundred yards from the hut there stood figures, singly or grouped in twos and threes, up to the highest slopes. They formed a sort of crescent above the crawl and on the lower side of it hiding under the bank of a river, where a dozen or more whose heads only were visible. They were all looking towards the crawl like a startled herd of buck. Now and then a burly figure would dart out from the huts with wild bounds and blood-curdling yells, and the watchers on that side would scatter like chaff and flee for dear life up the mountainside or duck instantly and disappear in the river. Then he would stalk back again and disappear to repeat the performance on another side a little later on. It was all perfectly clear to me. Jim had broken out. We were loaded for Leidenburg another weeks trekking through and over the mountains and as we intended coming back the same way a fortnight later I decided at once to leave Jim at his crawl which was only a little further on and pick him up on the return journey. I nearly always paid him off in livestock or sheep. He had good wages and for many months at a time he would draw no money. The boy was a splendid worker and as true as steel so that in spite of all the awful worry I had a soft spot for Jim and had taken a good deal of trouble on his account. He got his pay at the end of the triple the season but not in cash. It was invested for him greatly to his disgust at the time I am bound to say in livestock so that he would not be able to squander it and drink or be robbed of it while incapable. Jim's gloomy dignity was colossal when it came to squaring up and I invited him to state what he wished me to buy for him. To be treated like an irresponsible child, to be chaffed and cheerfully warned by me, to be met by the giggles and squirts of laughter of the other boys for whom he had the most profound contempt, to see the respectable Sam counting out with awkward eager hands and gleaming eyes the good red gold while he, Makokela da Zulu, was treated like a picanin. Ah! It was horrible! Intolerable! Jim would hold a loof in injured gloomy silence, not once looking at me but standing sideways and staring sternally past me into the far distance and not relaxing for a second the expression of profound displeasure on his weather-beaten face. No joke or chaff, no question or reason would move him to even look my way. All he would do was now and again give a click of disgust, a quick shake of the head and say, Ah! Angafuuna! I do not desire it. We had the same fight over and over again but I always won in the end. Once, when he would not make up his mind what to buy, I offered him instead of cash two of the worst oxen in his span at the highest possible valuation, and the effect was excellent, but the usual lever was to announce that if he could not make his choice and bargain for himself, I would do it for him. In the end he invariably gave way and bargained with his caffer-friends for a deal, venting on them by his hard driving and brow-beating some of the accumulated indignation which ought to have gone elsewhere. When it was all over, Jim recovered rapidly, and at parting time there were the broadest of grins and a stentorian shout-up, Salagathlen cos! And Jim went off with his springy walk, swinging his sticks and jabbering his thoughts aloud, evidently about me, for every now and then he would spring lightly into the air, twirl the stick and shout out deep-throated, Encos! Full of the joy of living, a boy going home for his holiday. This time Jim was too fully wound up to be dealt with as before, and I simply turned him off, telling him to come back to the camp in a fortnight's time. I was a day behind the wagon's returning and riding up to the camp towards midday found Jim waiting for me. He looked ill and shrunken, wrapped in an old coat and squatting against the wall of the little hut. As I passed he slowly rose and gave his... Sagabon, I am gwas! With that curious controlled air by which the caffer manages to suggest a kind of fatalist resignation or indifference touched with disgust. There was something wrong, so I rode past without stopping. One learns from them to find out how the land lies before doing anything. It was a bad story, almost as bad as one would think possible where civilised beings are concerned. Jim's own story lacked certain details of which he was necessarily ignorant. It also omitted the fact that he had been drunk, but in the main it was quite true. This is what happened as gleaned from several sources. Several days after our departure Jim went down to the store again and raised some liquor. He was not fighting but he was noisy and was the centre of a small knot of shouting, arguing boys near the store when seedling returned after a two days absence. No doubt it was unfortunate that the very first thing he saw on his return was the boy who had defied him and who was the cause of his humiliation and that that boy should by his behaviour give the slenderest excuse for interference was in the last degree unlucky. Seedling's mind was made up from the moment he set eyes on Jim. Throwing the reins over his horse's head he walked into the excited, gabbling knot, all unconscious of his advent and laid about him with the shambok, scattering and silencing them instantly. He then took Jim by the wrist saying, I want you. He called to one of his own boys to bring a rim and leading Jim over to the side of the store tied him up to the horse rail with arms at full stretch. Taking out his knife he cut the boy's clothing down the back so that it fell away in two halves in front of him. Then he took off his own coat and flogged the boy with his shambok. I would like to tell all that happened for one reason. It would explain the murderous manhunting feeling that possessed us when we heard it, but it was too cruel. Let it be. Only one thing to show the spirit. Twice during the flogging Seedling stopped to go into the store for a drink. Jim crawled home to find his crawl ransacked and deserted and his wives and children driven off in panic. In addition to the flogging Seedling had in accordance with his practice imposed fines far beyond the boy's means in cash so as to provide an excuse for seizing what he wanted. The police boys had raided the crawl and the cattle and goats his only property were gone. He told it all in a dull monotone. For the time the life and fire were gone out of him, but he was not cowed, not broken. There was a curl of contempt on his mouth and in his tone that whipped the white skin on my own back and made it all a disgrace unbearable. That this should be the reward for his courageous defence of jock seemed too awful. We went inside to talk it over and make our plans. The wagons should go on next day as if nothing had happened, Jim remaining in one of the half tents or elsewhere out of sight of passes by. I was to ride into Leidenburg and lodge information for in such a case the authorities would surely act. That was the best or at any rate the first course to be tried. There was no difficulty about the warrant for there were many cuts in the indictment against seedling, but even so worthless of brute as that seemed to have one friend or perhaps an accomplice to give him warning and before we reached his quarters with the police he had cleared on horseback for Portuguese territory taking with him a lead horse. We got most of Jim's cattle back for him, which he seemed to consider the main thing, but we were sorely disgusted at the man's escape. That was the era of the rush. Thousands of newcomers poured into the country on the strength of the gold discoveries. Materials and provisions of all kinds were almost unprocurable and stood at famine prices, and consequently we, the transport riders, reaped a golden harvest. Never had there been such times. Wagons and spans were paid for in single trips, and so great was the demand for supplies that some refused transport and bought their own goods, which they resold on the gold fields at prices twice as profitable as the highest rates of transport. Thus the days lost in the attempt to catch seedling were valuable days. The season was limited, and as early rains might cut us off, a few days thrown away might mean the loss of the whole trip. We hurried down, therefore, for the Bay doing little hunting that time. Near the crocodile on our way down we heard from men coming up that seedling had been there some days before, but that hearing we were on the way down and had sworn to shoot him, he had ridden on to Kamati, leaving one horse behind, bad with horse sickness. The report about shooting him was, of course, ridiculous, probably his own imagination, but it was some comfort to know that he was in such a state of terror that his own fancies were hunting him down. At Kamati we learned that he had stayed three days at the store of that Goanese murderer, Antonio. The same Antonio, who, on one occasion, had tried to drug and hand over to the enemy two of our men who had gotten into trouble defending themselves against raiding natives. The same Antonio, who afterwards made an ill-judged attempt to stab one Mikio Connor in a Barbaton canteen and happily got brained with a bottle of his own doctored spirits for his pains. Antonio, suspecting something wrong about a white man who came on horseback and dawdled aimlessly three days at Kamati Drift, going indoors whenever a stranger appeared, wormed the secret art with liquor and sympathy, and when he had got most of seedling's money out of him by pretence of bribing the Portuguese officials and getting news, made a bold bid for the rest by saying that a warrant was out for him in Delagoa and he must on no account go on. The evil-looking half-caste no doubt hoped to get the horse saddle and bridle as well as the cash and was quite prepared to drug seedling when the time came and slip him quietly into Kamati at night where the crocodiles would take care of the evidence. Antonio, however, overshot the mark. Seedling, who knew all about him, took fright, saddled up and bolted up the river meaning to make for the Lombombo near the Tembi Drift where Bob McNabb and his merry comrades ran free of governments and were a law unto themselves. It was no place for a nervous man, but Seedling had no choice and he went on. He had liquor in his saddle bags and food for several days, but he was not used to the bush and at the end of the first day he had lost his way and was beyond the river district where the cathars lived. So much is believed, though not positively known, at any rate he left the last crawl in those parts about noon and was heard of two days later at a crawl under the Lombombo. There he learned that the black umbilusi, which it would be necessary to swim, as Snowball and Setsie had done, lay before him and that it was yet a great distance to several guans and even then he would be only half-way to Bob's. Seedling could not face it alone and turned back for the nearest stall. The natives said that before leaving the crawl he bought beer from them, but did not want food for he looked sick. He was red and swollen in the face and his eyes were wild. The horse was weak and also looked sick, being very thin and empty, but they showed him the footpath over the hills which would take him to Tom's, a white man's store on the road to Delagoa and he left them. That was Tom Barnett's at Piscini where we always stopped for Tom was a good friend of ours. That was how we came to meet Seedling again. He had made a loop of 150 miles in four days in his efforts to avoid us, but he was waiting for us when we arrived at Tom Barnett's. We, who had hurried on to catch him, believing that the vengeance of justice depended on us, forgot that it had been otherwise decreed, Tom stood in the doorway of his store as we walked up, five feet one in his boots but every inch of it a man, with his hands resting idly on his hips and a queer smile on his face as he nodded welcome. Did a white man come here and horseback during the last few days from the drift? No. On foot? No, not the whole way. Is he here now? Tom nodded. You know about him, Tom. Seedling, the chap you're after, isn't it? Yes, we answered, lowering our voices. Tom looked from one to the other with the same queer smile and then making a move to let us into the store said quietly, he weren't clear boys, he's dead. Some caffers coming along the footpath from the bombo had found the horse dead of horse sickness half a day away and further on only a mile or so from the store the rider lying on his back in the sun dying of thirst. He died before they got him in. He was buried under a big fig tree where another and more honoured grave was made later on. Jim sat by himself the whole evening and never spoke a word. End of Chapter 23 Chapter 24 of Jock of the Bushfelt This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Suzie S.A. Hermanus South Africa, March 2010. Jock of the Bushfelt by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick Chapter 24 The Last Track It was Petty Groose Road that brought home to me and to others the wisdom of the old transport riders maxim, take no risks. We all knew that there were fly belts on the old main road but we rushed these at night for we knew enough of the taxi fly to avoid it. However, the discovery of the new road to Barbaton is short cut with plenty of water and grass which offered the chance of working an extra trip into the short DeloGoe season tempted me, amongst others, to take a risk. We had seen no fly when riding through to spy out the land and again on the trip down with empty wagons all had seen to be well but I had good reason afterwards to recall that hurried trip down and the night spent at Lowe's Creek. It was a lovely moonlight night, cool and still and the grass was splendid. After many weeks of poor feeding and drought the cattle reveled in the land of plenty. We had timed our tracks so as to get through the suspected parts of the road at night believing that the fly did not trouble after dark and thus we were at night outspanned in the worst spot of all a tropical garden of clear streams, tree ferns, foliage plants, mosses, maiden hair and sweet grass. I moved among the cattle myself, watching them feed greedily and waiting to see them satisfied before in spanning again to track through the night to some higher and more open ground. I noticed then that their tails were rather busy. At first it seemed the usual accompaniment of a good feed an expression of satisfaction. After a while, however, the swishing became too vigorous for this and when heads began to swing round and legs also were made use of it seemed clear that something was worrying them. The older hands were so positive that at night cattle were safe from fly that it did not even occur to me to suspect anything seriously wrong. Weeks passed by and although the cattle became poorer it was reasonable enough to put it down to the exceptional drought. It was late in the season when we loaded up for the last time in Delagoe and plowed our way through the Metolus swamp and the heavy sands of Pashin. But later it was there was no sign of rain and the rain we usually wanted to avoid would have been very welcome then. The roads were all blistering stones or powdery dust and it was cruel work for man and beast. The heat was intense and there was no breeze. The dust moved along slowly a pace with us in a dense cloud. Men, wagons and animals all turned to the same hue and the poor oxen toiling slowly along drew in the finely powdered stuff at every breath. At the outspan they stood about exhausted and panting with rings and lines of brown marking where the moisture from the nostrils, eyes and mouths had caught the dust and turned it into mud. At Matola Pwyrt where the La Bamba range runs low where the polished black rocks shone like anvils where the stones and baked earth scorched the feet of man and beast to aching the world was like an oven. The heat came from above, below and around a thousand glistening surfaces flashing back with intensity the sun's fierce rays and there at Matola Pwyrt the big pool had given out. Our standby was gone. There in the deep cleft in the rocks where the feeding spring cool and constant had trickled down a smooth black rock beneath another overhanging slab and where fferns and mosses had clustered in one little spot in all the miles of blistering rocks. There was nothing left but mud and slime. The water was as green and thick as pea soup. Filth of all kinds lay in it and on it. Half a dozen rotting carcasses stuck in the mud round the one small wet spot where the pool had been just where they fell and died. The coat had dropped away from some and mats of hair black, brown and white helped to thicken the green water. But we drank it. Sinking a handkerchief where the water looked thinnest and making a little well into which the moisture slowly filtered we drank it greedily. The next water on the road was Comarty River but the cattle were too weak to reach it in one track and remembering another pool off the road a small lagoon found by accident went out hunting the year before We moved on that night out onto the flats and made through the bush for several miles to look for water and grass. We found the place just after dawn. There was a string of half a dozen pools ringed with yellow plumed reeds. Like a bracelet of sapphires set in gold deep, deep pools of beautiful water in the midst of acres and acres of rich buffalo grass it was too incredibly good. I was trekking alone that trip the only white man there and tired out by the all night's work the long ride and the searching in the bush for the lagoon I had gone to sleep after seeing the cattle to the water and grass. Before midday I was back among them again some odd movement struck a chord of memory and the night at Lowe's Creek flashed back tails were swishing freely and the bullock near me kicked up sharply at its side and swung its head round to brush something away I moved closer up to see what was causing the trouble in a few minutes I heard a thin sing of wings different from a mosquitoes and they are settled on my shirt a grey fly very like and not much larger than a common house fly whose wings folded over like a pair of scissors that was the mark of the beast I knew then why this oasis had been left by transport rider and tracker as nature made it untrodden and untouched not a moment was lost in getting away from the fly but the mischief was already done the cattle must have been bitten at Lowe's Creek weeks before and again that morning during the time I slept and it was clear that not drought and poverty but fly was the cause of their weakness after the first rains they would begin to die and the right thing to do now was to press on as fast as possible and deliver the loads Barbaton was booming and short of supplies and the rates were the highest ever paid but I had done better still having bought my own goods and the certain prophet looked a fortune to me even if all the cattle became unfit for use or died the loads would pay for everything and the right course therefore was to press on for delay would mean losing both cattle and loads all I had in the world and starting again penniless with the years of hard work thrown away so the last hard struggle began and it was work and puzzle day and night without peace or rest trying to nurse the cattle in their daily failing strength and yet to push them for all they could do watching the sky cloud over every afternoon promising rain that never came and not knowing whether to call it promise or threat although rain would bring grass and water to save the cattle it also meant death to the flybaton we crossed the commodity with three spans 44 oxen to a wagon for the drift was deep in two places and the weakened cattle could not keep their feet it was a hard day and by nightfall it was easy to pick out the oxen who would not last out a week that night Zole laid down and did not get up again Zole the little fat schoolboy always out of breath always good tempered and quiet as tame as a pet dog he was only the first to go day by day others followed some were only cattle others were old friends and comrades on many tracks the two big after oxen Ahmad and Bakir went down early the commodity drive had overtired them and the weight and jolting of the heavy disil boom on the bad roads finished them off these were two inseparables who worked and grazed walked and slept side by side never more than a few yards apart day or nights since the day they became yoke fellows they died on consecutive days but the living wonder of that last track was still old Swartlan, the front ox with his steady sober air perfect understanding of his work and firm, clean, buck-like tread he still led the front span before we reached the crocodile his mate gave in worn to death by the ebbing of his own strength and by the steady, indomitable courage of his comrade old Swartlan pulled on but my heart sank as I looked at him and noted the slightly staring coat the falling flanks the tread less sure and brisk and a look in his eyes that made me think he knew what was coming but would do his best the gallant-hearted old fellow held on one after another we tried with him in the lead half a dozen or more but he wore them all down in the dongers and straights where the crossings were often very bad and steep the wagons would stick for hours and the wear and strain on the exhausted cattle was killing it was bad enough for the man who drove them to see old Swartlan then holding his ground never for one moment turning or wavering while the others backed, jibed and swayed and dragged him staggering backwards made one's heart ache the end was sure flesh and blood will not last forever the startist heart can be broken the worst of it was that with all the work and strain we accomplished less than we used to before in quarter of the time distances formally covered in one track took three, four or even five now water, never too plentiful in certain parts was sadly diminished by the drought and it sometimes took us three or even four tracks to get from water to water thus we had at times to drive the oxen back to the last place or on to the next one for their drinks and by the time the poor beasts got back to the wagons to begin their track they had done nearly as much as they were able to do and trouble begot trouble as usual Sam the respectable who had drawn all his pay at Delagoe gave up after one hard day and deserted me he said that the hand of the Lord had smitten me and mine and great misfortune would come to all so he left in the dark at Crocodile Drift taking one of the leaders with him and joined some wagons making for Leidenburg the work was too hard for him it was late in the season he feared the rains and fever and he had no pluck or loyalty so he feared for no one but himself I was left with three leaders and two drivers to manage four wagons it was Jim who told me of Sam's desertion he had the cross-defiant pre-occupied look of old but there was also something of satisfaction in his air as he walked up to me and stood to deliver the great vindication of his own un-earing judgment Sam has deserted you and taken his Fwylwyrfa he jerked the words out of me speaking in Zulu I said nothing it was just about Sam's form it annoyed but did not surprise me Jim favoured me with hard searching look a subdued grunt and a click expressive of things he could not put into words and without another word he turned and walked back towards his wagon but halfway to it he broke silence facing me once more he thumped his chest and hurled at me in mixed Zulu and English I said so Sam leader bible Sam no good shangan I said so I always said so when Jim helped me to in-span Sam's wagon he did it to an accompaniment of Zulu implications which only a Zulu could properly appreciate they were quite above my head but every now and then I caught one sentence repeated like a response in a litany I kill that shangan when I see him again at lion's break there was more bad luck lions had been troublesome there in former years but for a couple of seasons nothing had been seen of them their return was probably due to the fact that because of the drought and consequent failure of other waters the game on which they prayed had moved down towards the river at any rate they returned unexpectedly and we had one bad night where the cattle were unmanageable and their nerves all on edge the third boys had seen spher in the afternoon at dusk we heard the distant roaring and later on the nearer and more ominous grunting I fastened jock up in a tent wagon lest the sight of him should prove too tempting he was bristling like a hedgehog and constantly working out beyond the cattle glaring and growling incessantly towards the bush we had four big fires at the four corners of the out-span and no doubt this saved a bad stampede for in the morning we found a circle of spher where the lions had walked round and round the out-span there were scores of footprints the tracks of at least four or five animals in the bush felt the oxen were invariably tied up at night picketed to the track chain each pair at its yoke ready to be in-spanned for the early morning track ordinarily the weight of the chain and yokes were sufficient to keep them in place but when there were lions about and the cattle liable to be scared and all sway off together in the same direction we took the extra precaution of pegging down the chain and anchoring the front yoke to a tree or stake we had a lot of trouble that night as one of the lions persistently took his stand to windward of the cattle to scare them with his scent we knew well enough when he was there although unable to see anything oxen would face upwinds staring with bulging eyeballs in that direction and braced up tense with excitement if one of them made a sudden move the whole lot jumped in response and swayed off downwind away from the danger dragging the gear with them and straining until the heavy wagons yielded to the tug we had to run out then and drive them up again to stay the stampede it is a favourite device of lions when tackling camps and out-spans for one of them to go to windward so that the terrified animals on winding him may stampede in the opposite direction where the other lions are lying in wait two oxen broke away that night and were never seen again once I saw a low light coloured form steel across the road and took a shot at it but rifle shooting at night is a gamble and there was no sign of a hit I was too short-handed and too pressed for time to make a real try for the lions the next day and after a morning spent in fruitless search for the lost bullocks we went on again instead of 15 to 18 miles a day as should have been done we were then making between four and eight and sometimes not one the heat and the drought were awful but at last we reached the crocodile and struck up the right bank for the shortcut Pettigrews Road to Barbaton and there we had good water and some pickings of grass and young reeds along the riverbank the clouds piled up every afternoon the air grew still and sultry the thunder growled and rumbled a few drops of rain pitted the dusty road and patted on the drive leaves and that was all anything seemed preferable to the intolerable heat and dust and drought and each day I hoped the rain would come cost what it made to the fly-button cattle but the days dragged on and still the rain held off then came one black day as we crawled slowly along the riverbank which is not to be forgotten in one of the cross-sprates cutting sharply down to the river the second wagon stuck the poor tired-out cattle were too weak and dispirited to pull it out being short of drivers and leaders it was necessary to do the work in turns that is after getting one wagon through a bad place to go back for another we had to double span this wagon taking the span from the front wagon back to hook on in front of the other and on this occasion I laid the span while Jim drove we were all tired out by the work in heat and I lay down in the dusty road in front of the oxen to rest while the chains were being coupled up I looked up into old Swartland's eyes deep, placid, constant, dark grey eyes the oxen eyes of which so many speak and write and so few really know there was trouble in them he looked anxious and hunted and it made me heart sick to see it when the pull came the back span already disheartened and out of hand swayed and turned every way straining the front oxen to the utmost yet Swartland took the strain and pulled for a few moments both front oxen stood firm then his mate cut in and turned the team swung away with a rush and the old fellow was jerk backwards and rolled over on his side he struggled gamely but it was some minutes before he could rise and then his eye looked wilder and more despairing his legs were planted apart to balance him and his flanks were quivering Jim straightened up the double span again Swartland leaned forward once more and the others followed his lead the wagon moved little and they managed to pull it out but I, walking in front felt the brave old fellow stagger and saw him with head lowered plodd blindly like one stricken to death we outspanned on the rise and I told Jim to leave the ream on Swartland's head many a good turn from him deserved one more from me the last I sent Jim for the rifle and led the old front ox to the edge of the dongar where a bleached tree lay across it he dropped into the dongar under the dead tree and I packed the dry branches over him and set fire to the pile it looks absurd now but to leave him to the wolf and jackal seemed like going back on a friend and the queer look of the boys and what they would think of me were easier to bear Jim watched but said nothing with a single grunt and a shrug of his shoulders he stalked back to the wagons the talk that night at the boys fire went on in low-pitched tones not a single word audible to me but I knew what it was about as Jim stood up to get his blanket off the wagon he stretched himself and closed off the evening's talk with a zulu click and remark that all white men are mad in some way so we crawled on until we reached the turn where the road turned between the mountain range and the river and where the railway runs today there, where afterwards Cassidy did his work we outspanned one day when the heat became so great that it was no longer possible to go on four weeks the storm clouds had gathered threatened and dispersed thunder had come half-heartedly little spots of rain enough to pockmark the dust but there had been no break in the drought it was past noon that day when everything grew still the birds and insects hushed their sound the dry leaves did not give a whisper there was the warning in the air that one knows but cannot explain and it struck me and the boys together that it was time to spread and tie down the buck cells which we had not unfolded for months while we were busy at this they came an unheralded flash and crash then a few drops as big as Florence and then the flood gates were opened and the reservoir of the long months of drought were turned loose on us crouching under the wagon where I had crept to latch down the sail I looked out at the deluge hesitating whether to make a dash for my tent wagon or remain there all along the surface of the earth there lay for a minute or so a two feet screen of mingled dust and splash long spikes of rain drove down and dashed into spray each bursting its little column of dust from the powdery earth there was an indescribable and unforgettable progression in sound and smells and sight a growth and change rapid yet steady inevitable, breathless, overwhelming little enough could one realise in those first few minutes and in the few square yards around yet there are details unnoticed at the time which come back quite vividly when the bewildering rush is over and there are impressions which it is not possible to forget there were the sounds and the smells and the sights the sounds that began with the sudden crash of thunder the dead silence that followed it the first great drops which fell with such pats on the dust then more and faster yet still so big and separate as to make one look around to see where they fell the sound on the wagon sail at first as of bouncing marbles then the devil's tattoo and then the roar and outside there was a muffled puff and patter in the dust the rustle as the drops struck dead leaves and grass and sticks the blend of many notes that made one great sound always growing, changing and moving on full of weird significance until there came a steady swish and hiss of water upon water when the earth had ceased to stand up against the rain and was swamped but even that did not last for then the fallen rain raised its voice against the rest and little sounds of trickling scurrying waters came to tone the ceaseless hiss and grew and grew until from every side the chorus of rushing, tumbling waters filled the air with the steady roar of the flood and the smells, the smell of the bake drought-bound earth the faint clearing and purifying by the first few drops the mingled dust and damp, the rinsed air the clean sense of water, water everywhere and in the end the bracing sensation in nostrils and head of not wind exactly but of swirling air thrust out to make room for the falling rain and when all was over the sense of glorious clarified air and scoured earth the smell of a new-washed world and the things that one saw went with the rest marking the stages of the storm's short vivid life the first puffs of dust where drops struck like bullets the cloud that rose to meet them the drops themselves that streaked slanting down like a flight of steel ramrods the dust dissolves in a dado of splash I had seen the yellow-brown ground change colour in a few seconds it was damp, then mud, then all-asheen a minute more and busy little trickle started everywhere tiny things a few inches long and while one watched them they joined and merged hurrying on with twist and turn but ever onwards to a given point to meet like the veins in a leaf each tuft of grass became a fountain head each space between a little rivulet swelling rapidly racing away with its burden of leaf and twig and dust and foam until in a few minutes all were lost in one sheet of moving water crouching under the wagon I watched it and saw the little streamlets dirty and debris laden steel slowly on like slugged snakes down to my feet and winding round me meet beyond and hasten on soon the grass tufts and the higher spots were wet and as the water rose on my boots and the splash beat up to my knees it seemed worthwhile making for the tent of the wagon but in there the roar was deafening the rain beat down with such force that it drove through the canvas covered wagon tent and greased buxel in fine mist in there it was black dark that our pollen covering all and I slipped out again back to my place under the wagon to watch the storm we were on high ground which fell gently away on three sides a long spur running down to the river between two of the numberless small watercours scoring the flanks of the hills mere gutters there were easy corrugations in the slope from the range to the river insignificant drains in which no water ever ran except during the heavy rains one would walk through scores of them with easy swinging stride and never notice their existence yet when the half hour storm was over and it was possible to get out and look round they were rushing boiling torrents 20 to 30 feet across and 6 to 10 feet deep running and plunging towards the river red with the soil of the stripped earth and laden with leaves, grass, sticks and branches water furies, wild and ungovernable against which neither man nor beast could stand for a moment when the rain ceased the air was full of the roar of water growing louder and nearer all the time I walked down the long low spur to look at the river expecting much and was grievously disappointed it was no fuller and not much changed on either side of me, the once dried dongers emptied their soil, stained and debris laden content in foaming cataracts each deepening the yellow we read of the river at its banks but out in midstream the river was undisturbed and its normal colour the clear yellow of some ambers was unchanged how small the great storm seemed then how puny the flooded creeks and dongers yet each master of man and his work how many of them are needed to make a real flood there are a few things more deceptive than the tropical storm to one caught in it all the world seems deluged and overwhelmed yet a mile away it may be all peace and sunshine I looked at the revan laughed at myself the revelation seemed complete it was humiliating, one felt so small still the draught was broken, the rains had come and in spite of disappointment I stayed to watch drawn by the scores of little things caught up and carried by the first harvest garnered by the rains a quarter of an hour or more may have been spent thus when amid all the chorus of the rushing waters there stole in a duller murmur murmur it was at first but it grew steadily into a low toned distant roar and it caught and held one like the roar of coming hail or hurricane it was the river coming down the sun was out again and in the straight reach above the bend there was every chance to watch the flood from the bank where I stood it seemed strangely long in coming but come it did at last in waves like the half spent breakers on a sandy beach a slope of foam and broken waters in the van an ugly wall with spray tipped feathered crest behind and tear on tear to follow heavens what a scene the force of waters and the utter hopeless puniness of man the racing waves each dashing for the foremost place only to force the further on the tall reeds caught waste high and then laid low their silvery tops dipped, hidden and drowned in the flood the trees yielding and the branches snapping like matches and twirling like feathers down the stream the rumbling thunder of big boulders loosed and tumbled rolled like marbles on the rocks below whole trees brought down and turning helplessly in the flood drawn giants with their branches swinging slowly over like nervous arms it was tremendous and one had to stay and watch then the waves ceased and behind the opposite bank another stream began to make its way winding like a huge snake spreading wider as it went across the flats beyond until the two rejoined and the river became one again the roar of waters gradually lessened the two cataracts beside me were silent and looking down I saw that the fall was gone and that water ran to water swift as ever but voiceless now and it was lost in the river itself inch by inch the water rose towards my feet tufts of grass trembled, wavered and went down little wavelets flipped and licked like tongues against the remaining bank of soft earth below me piece after piece of it lent gently forwards and toppled headlong in the eager creeping tide deltas of yellow scum flecked water oed silently up the dongers reaching out with stealthy feelers to enclose the place where I was standing and then it was time to go the cattle had turned their tails to the storm and stood out they too were washed clean and looked fresher and brighter but there was nothing in that two of them had been seen by the boys moving slowly foot by foot before the driving rain down the slope from the outspan stung by the heavy drops and yielding in their weakness to the easy gradient only 50 yards away they should have stopped in the hollow the shallow dried donger of the morning but they were gone and willing to turn back and face the rain they had no doubt been caught in the rush of the storm water and swirled away and their bodies were bobbing in the crocodile many miles below by the time we missed them in a couple of hours the water had run off the dongers were almost dry again and we moved on it was then that the real rot set in next morning there were half a dozen oxen unable to stand up and so again the following day it was no longer possible to take the four wagons all the spare cattle had been used up and it was better to face the worse at once so I distributed the best of the load on the other three wagons and abandoned the rest of it with the fourth wagon in the bush but day by day the oxen dropped out and when we reached the junction and branched up the carp there was not enough left for three wagons this time it meant abandoning both wagons and load and I gave the cattle a day's rest then hoping that they would pick up strength on good grass to face the eight drifts that lay between us and Barbaton End of Chapter 24 Chapter 25 of Jock of the Bushfield by Olive Shriner This is a LibriVox recording All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Read by Sally McConnell in Betty's Bay South Africa in March 2010 Jock of the Bushfield by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick Chapter 23 Our Last Hunt We had not touched fresh meat for many days as there had been no time for shooting but I knew that game was pinterful across the river in the wrath country between the carp and the crocodile and I started off to make the best of the day's delay little dreaming that it was to be the last time Jock and I would hunt together Weeks had passed without a hunt and Jock must have thought there was a sad falling way on the part of his master He no longer expected anything The rifle was never taken down now except for an odd shot from the art span or to put some poor animal out of its misery Since the night with the lions when he had been ignominiously cooped up there had been nothing to stow his blood and make life worth living and this morning as he saw me rise from breakfast and proceed to potter about the wagons in the way he had come to regard as inevitable I looked on indifferently for a few minutes and then stretched out full length in the sun and went to sleep I could not take him with me across the river as the fly was said to be bad there and it was no place to risk horse or dog The best of prospects would not have tempted me to chance with him but I hated ordering him to stay behind as I'd hurt his dignity and sense of comradeship so it seemed a happy accident that he fell asleep and I could slip away unseen As the cattle were grazing along the river bank only a few hundred yards off I took a turn that way to have a look at them with natural but quite fruitless concern for their welfare and a moment later met the herd boy running towards me and courting out excitedly something which I made out to be Crocodile! Crocodile in course! Crocodile has taken one of their oxen! The wagon boys heard it also and armed with esegais and sticks were on the bank as soon as I was but there was no sign of crocodile or bullock The boy showed us the place where the weakened animal had gone down to drink the hoof slides were plain enough and told how as it drank the long black coffin head had appeared out of the water He described stolidly how the big jaws had opened and gripped the bullock's nose how he a few yards away had seen the struggle how he had shouted and hurled his sticks and stones of grass and fainted to rush down at it and how after a muffled bellow and a weak staggering effort to pull back the poor beast had slipped out into the deep water and disappeared It seemed to be quite unnecessary addition to my troubles as fortunes were coming thick and fast Half an hour was wasted in watching and searching but we saw no more of crocodile or bullock and as there was nothing to be done I turned upstream to find a shallower and a safer crossing At best it was not pleasant The water was waist high and racing in narrow channels between and over boulders and loose slippery stones and I was glad to get through without a tumble and a swim The country was rough on the other side and the old grass was high and dense for no one went there in those days and the grass stood unburnt from season to season Climbing over oxen stony ground crunching dry sticks underfoot and driving a path through the rank Tumbuky grass it seemed well now hopeless to look for a shot several times I heard buck start up and dash off only a few yards away and it began to look as if the wiser course would be to turn back At last I got out of the valley and into more level and more open ground and came out upon a ledge or plateau 100 yards or more wide with a low ridge of rocks and some thorns on the far side quite a lightly spot I searched the open ground from my cover and seeing nothing there crossed over to the rocks threading my way silently between them and expecting to find another clear space beyond The snort of a buck brought me to a stand still among the rocks and as I listened it was followed by another and another from the same quarter delivered at irregular intervals and each snort was accompanied by the sound of trampling feet sometimes like stamps of anger and at other times seemingly a hasty movement I had on several occasions interrupted fights between angry rivals once two splendid cwdu bulls were at it a second time it was two sables and the vicious and incredibly swift sweep of the cimetar horn still lives in memory along with a wonderful nimblness of the other fellow who dodged it and another time they were blue vildobies but some interruption had occurred each time and I had no more than a glimpse of what might have been a rare scene to witness I was determined not to spoil it this time no doubt it was a fight and probably they were fencing and circling for an opening as there were no bump of heads or clash of horns and no tearing scrambling of feet to indicate the real struggle I crept on through the rocks and found before me a tangle of thorns and dead wood impossible to pass through in silence it was better to work back again and try the other side of the rocks the way was clearer there and I crept up to a rock four or five feet high feeling certain from the sound that the fight would be in full view a few yards beyond with the rifle ready I raised myself slowly until my eyes were over the top of the rock some 20 yards off in an open flat of down crudden grass I saw a sable car she was standing with feet firmly and widely planted looking fiercely in front of her ducking her head in threatening manner every few seconds and giving angry snorts and behind and huddled up against her was her scared bewildered little red brown calf it seems stupid not to have guessed what it all meant yet the fact is that for the few remaining seconds I was simply puzzled and fascinated by the behaviour of the two sables then in the corner of my eye I saw away on my right another red brown thing come into the open it was jock casting about with nose to ground for my trail which he had overrun at the point where I had turned back near the deadwood on the other side of the rocks what happened then was a matter of a second or two as I turned to look at him he raised his head bristled up all over and made one jump forward then a long low yellowish thing moved in the unbeaten grass in front of the sable cow raised its head sharply and looked full into my eyes and before I could move a finger it shot away in one streak like bound a wild shot at the lioness as I jumped up full height a shot a jock to come back a scramble of black and brown on my lift and it was all over I was standing in the open ground breathless with excitement and jock a few yards off with hind legs crouched ready for a dash looking back at me for leave to go the spur told the tale there was the outer circle made by the lioness in the grass broken in places where she had fainted to rush in and stopped before the lowered horns and inside this there was the smaller circle a tangle of crumpled grass and spur where the brave mother had stood between her young and death any attempt to follow the lioness after that would have been waste of time we struck often a new direction and in crossing a stretch of level ground where the thorn trees were well scattered and the grass fairly short my eye caught a movement in front that brought me to an instant standstill it was as if the stem of a young thorn tree had suddenly waved itself and settled back again and it meant that some long-hawned buck, perhaps a kudw or a sable ball was lying down and had swung its head and it meant also that he was comfortably settled, quite unconscious of danger I marked and watched the spot or rather the line for the glimpse was too brief to tell more than the direction but there was no other move the air was almost still with just a faint drift from him to us and I examined every stick and branch every stump and anteep every bush and tussock without stirring a foot but I could make out nothing I could trace no art line and see no patch of colour dark or light to betray him it was an incident very characteristic of bush-field hunting there I stood minute after minute not risking a move which would be certain to reveal me staring and searching for some big animal lying half asleep within 80 yards of me on grant that you would not call good cover for a rabbit we were in the sunlight, he lay somewhere beyond were a few scattered thorn trees drew dabs of shade marbling with deppled shade and light the already mottled surface of earth and grass I was hopelessly beaten but Jock could see him well enough he crouched beside me with ears cocked and his eyes all ablazed were fixed intently on the spot except for an occasional swift look up at me to see what on earth was wrong and why the shot did not come his hind legs were tucked under him and he was trembling with excitement only those will realise it who have been through the tantalising humiliating experience there was nothing to be done but wait leaving the back to make the first move and at last it came there was another slack shake of the horns and the whole figure stood out in bold relief it was a fine sable bull lying in the shadow of one of the thorn trees with his back towards us and there was a small anteep close behind him making a greyish blot against his black back and shoulder and breaking the expanse of colour which the eye would otherwise easily have picked up the anteep made a certain shot impossible so I lowered myself slowly to the ground to wait until he should begin feeding or change his position for comfort or shade as they often do this might mean waiting for half an hour or more but it was better than risking a shot in the position in which he was lying I settled down for a long wait with the rifle resting on my knees confidently expecting that when the time came to move he would get up slowly stretch himself and have a good look round but he did nothing of the kind a turn or iddy of the faint breeze must have given him my wind for there was one twitch of the horns as his nose was laid to windward and without an instant's pause he dashed off it was the quickest thing imaginable in a big animal it looked as though he started racing from his lying position the bush was not close enough to save him however in spite of his start and through the thin veil of smoke I saw him plunge and stumble and then dash off again and jock seeing me give chase went ahead and in half a minute I was left well behind but still in sight of the hunt I shouted a jock to come back just as one murmurs good day to a passing friend in the din of traffic from force of habit of course he could hear nothing it was his first and only go at a sable he knew nothing of the terrible horns of the deadly sight like sweep that makes the wounded sable so dangerous and then the lioness had fought shy of them and great was my faith in him the risk in this case was not one I would have taken there was nothing to do but follow a quarter of a mile on I drew closer up and found them standing face to face among the thorns it was the first of three or four stands the sable with a watchful eye on me always moved on as I drew near enough to shoot the beautiful black and white bull stood facing his little red enemy the fence and play of fent and thrust guard and dodge was wonderful to see not once did either touch the other at jock's least movement the sable's head would go down with his nose into his chest and the magnificent horns arched forward and poised so as to strike either right or left and if jock fentered a rush either way the sight sweep came with lightning quickness covering more than half a circle and carrying the gleaming points with a swing right over the sable's own back then he would advance slowly and menacingly with horns well forward ready to strike and eyes blazing through his eyebrows driving jock before him there were three or four of these encounters in which I could take no hand the distance, the intervening thorns and grass and the quickness of their movements made a safe shot impossible and there was always the risk of hitting jock for a hard run does not make for good shooting each time as the sable drove him back there would be a vicious rush suddenly following the first deliberate advance and as jock scrambled back out of the way the ball would swing round with incredible quickness and be all full gallop in another direction evidently the final rush was a manoeuvre to get jock clear of his heels and flanks as he started and thus secure a lead for the next run since the day he was kicked by the kudw car jock had never tackled an unbroken hind leg a dangling one he never missed but the lesson of the flying heels had been too severe to be forgotten and he never made that mistake again in this chase I saw him time after time try at the sable's flanks and run up a breast of his shoulder and make flying leaps at the throat but he never got in front where the horns could reach him and although he passed and re-passed behind to try on the other side when he had failed at the one and looked up eagerly at the hind legs as he passed them he made no attempt at them it must have been at the fourth or fifth stand that jock got through the guard at last the sable was badly wounded in the body and darkness strength was failing but there was little evidence of this yet in the pauses jock's tongue shot and slithered about a glittering red streak but after short spells of panting his head would shut up with a snap like a steel trap and his face set with a look of invincible resolution which had got in part from the post-up mouth and in part from the intensity of the beady black-brown eyes he was good for hours of this sort of work this time the sable drove him back towards a big thorn tree it may have been done without design or it may have been done with the idea of pinning him up against the trunk but jock was not to be caught that way in a fight he took in the whole field behind as well as in front he had shown the night the second wild dog tackled him on his side too there may or may not have been designed in backing towards the tree who knows I thought that he scored not by a manoeuvre but simply because of his unrelaxing watchfulness and his resolute unhesitating courage he seemed to know instinctively that the jump aside so safe with the strafe charging animals was no game to play against the side sweep of a sable's horns and at each charge of the enemy he had scrambled back out of range without the least pretence of taking liberties this time the sable drove him steadily back towards the tree but in the last step just as the bull made his rush jock jumped past the tree and instead of scrambling back out of reaches before dodged round and was in the rear of the back before it could turn on him there were no flying heels to fear then and without an instant's hesitation he fastened on one of the hind legs above the hawk with a snort of rage and indignation the sable spun round and round kicking and plunging wildly and making vicious sweeps with his horns but jock although swung about and shaken like a rat was out of reach and kept his grip it was a quick and furious struggle in which I was altogether forgotten and as one more desperate plunge bought the bull down in a struggling, kicking heap with jock completely hidden under him I ran up and ended the fight it always took him some time to calm down after these tussles he became so wound up by the excitement of the struggle that time was needed to run down again, so to say while I was busy on the double precaution of fixing up a scare for the arsefuls and cutting grass and branches to cover the back jock moved restlessly round the sable ever ready to pounce on him again at the least sign of life the slithering tongue and wide-open mouth looked like a big red gash splitting his head in two he was so blown his breath came and went like a puffing of a diminutive steam engine at full speed and his eyes with all the wickedness of fight but none of the watchfulness gone out of them, flickered incessantly from the back to me one sign from either would have been enough it was the same old scene the same old performance that I had watched scores of times but it never grew stale or failed to draw a laugh a word of chair and pat of affection and from him there was always the same response the friendly wagging of that stumpy tail a splashy lick, a soft upward look and a wider split of the mouth that was a laugh as plain as if one heard it but that was only an interruption, a few seconds distraction it did not put him off or satisfy him that all was well his attention went back to the buck and the everlasting footwork went on again with his front to the fallen enemy and his forelegs well apart he kept ever on the move, forwards and backwards in quick steps of a few inches each and at the same time edging round in his zigzag circle making a track round the buck like a weather chart with the glass at changeable silly old fassar can't you see he's finished? he could not hear anything but the response of Wag showed that he knew I was talking to him and dodging the piece of bark I threw at him he resumed his ridiculous round I was still laughing at him when he stopped and turning sharply round made a snap at his side and a few seconds later he did it again then there was a thin sing of insect wings and I knew that the tsetse fly were on us the only thought then was for jock who was still working busily round the sable for some minutes I sat with him between my legs whispering away at the flies with a small branch and wondering what to do it soon became clear that there was nothing to be gained by waiting instead of passing away the fly became more numerous and there was not a moment's peace or comfort to be had for tackling me on the neck, arms and legs where the thorn-ripped pants lift them bare to the knees so slinging the rifle over my shoulder I picked jock up greatly to his discomfort and carried him off in my arms at the best pace possible under the circumstances half a mile of that was enough however the weight, the awkwardness of the position the effort to screen him and the difficulty of picking my way in very rough country at the same time were too much for me to tumble into a grass-hidden hole laid us both out sprawling and I sat down again to rest and think swishing the fly's offers before then an idea came which, in spite of all the anxiety made me laugh and ended in putting poor old jock in quite the most undignified and ridiculous plight he had known since the days of his puppyhood when his head stuck in the bully-beef tin or the hen picked him on the nose I ripped off as much of my shirt as was not needed to protect me against the fly's and making holes in it for his legs and tail fitted him out with the homemade suit in about five minutes time was everything it was impossible to run with him in my arms but we could run together until we got out of the fly belt and there was not much risk of being bitten as long as we kept up the running in the long grass it was a long spell and what with the rough country and the uncontrollable laughter at the sight of jock I was pretty well done by the time I got out of the fly we pulled up when the country began to fall away sharply towards the river and there to jock's evident satisfaction I took off his suit by that time very much tattered and awry it was there lying between two rocks in the shade of a marulotry that I got one of those chances to see game at close quarters of which most men only hear or dream there were no snapshot cameras then we had been lying there at maybe for half an hour or more jock asleep and I spread out on my back when a slight but distinct click as of a hoof against a stone made me turn quietly over on my side and listen the rock beside me was about four feet high and on the other side of it a buck of some kind and a big one too was walking with easy stride towards the river every footstep was perfectly clear the walk was firm and confident evidently there was not the least suspicion of danger it was only a matter of yards between us and what little breeze there was drifted across his course towards me as he too made for the river holding a course parallel with the two long rocks between which we were lying the footsteps came abreast of us and then stopped just as I was expecting him to walk on past the rock and down the hill in front of me the sudden halt seemed to mean that some warning instinct had arrested him or some leased taint upon the pure air softly iddying between the rocks had reached him I could hear his sniffs and pictured him looking about silent but alarmed before deciding which way to make his rush I raised myself by inches close to the rock until I could see over it a magnificent water-buck ball full-grown and in perfect coat and condition was standing less than five yards away and a little to the right having already passed me when he came to a stop he was so close that I could see the waves and partings in his hilly coat the rise and fall in his flanks as he breathed the rough on his shaggy bearded throat that gave such an air of grandeur to the head the noble carriage as with head held high and slightly turned windward he sniffed the breeze from the valley the nostrils mobile and sensitive searching for the leased hint of danger and the eye large and full and soft luminous with watchful intelligence and yet mild and calm so free was it from all trace of a disturbing thought and yet I was so close it seemed almost possible to reach out and touch him there was no thought of shooting it was a moment of supreme enjoyment just to watch him that was enough in a while he seemed satisfied that all was well and with head thrown slightly forward and the sure clean tread of his kind he took his line unhesitatingly down the hill as he neared the thicker bush 20 yards away a sudden impulse made me give a shot in a single bound he was lost among the trees and the clattering of loose stones and the crackle of sticks in his path had ceased before the cold shiver down the back which my spell breaking shot provoked had passed away when I turned round jock was still asleep little incidents like that brought his deafness home it was our last days hunting together and I went back to the dreary round of hard hopeless useless struggle and daily loss one day a calm cloudless day there came without warning a tremendous booming roar that left the air vibrating and seemed to shake the very earth as a thousand echoes called and answered from hill to hill down the long valley there was nothing to explain it the cathars turned a sickly grey and appealed to me but I could give them no explanation it was something beyond my kin and they seemed to think it an evil omen of still greater ill luck but as it turned out the luck was not all bad some days passed before the mystery was solved and then we came to where Coombs with whom a week earlier was held to keep pace had been blown to pieces with his boys wagon oxen and three tons of dynamite there was no fragment of wagon be given one's hand and the trees all around were bucked on one side we turned out to avoid the huge hole in the drift and passed on there were only 20 oxen left when we reached the drift below fig tree the water was nearly breast high and we carried three fourths of the loads through on our heads case by case to make the pool as easy as possible for the oxen as they could only crawl in we got one wagon through with some difficulty but at nightfall the second was still in the river we had carried out everything removable even to the back sails but the weakened bullocks could not move the empty wagon the thunder clouds were piling up ahead and distant lightning gave warning of a storm away up river so we wound the trick chain round a big tree on the bank to anchor the wagon in case of flood and reeling from work and wariness too tired to think of food I flung myself down in my blankets under the other wagon which was arts band where we had stopped it in the double-rutted felt road and settling comfortably into the sandy furrow cut by many wheels was dead to the world in a few minutes near midnight the storm awoke me in a curious coldness about the neck and shoulders made me turn over to pull the blankets up the road had served as a storm water drain converting the two wheel furrows into running streams and I rolled in my blankets had damned up one of them the prompt flow of the released water as soon as I turned over told plainly what had happened I looked out at the driving rain and the glistening earth as shown up by constant flashes of lightning it was a world of rain and spray and running water it seemed that there was neither hope nor mercy anywhere I was too tired to care and dropping back into the trough slipped the night out in water in the morning we found the wagon still in the drift although partly hidden by the flood but the force of the stream had half floated and half forced it round on to higher ground only the anchoring chain had saved it we had to wait some hours for the river to run down and then to my relief the rested anchoring oxen pulled it out at the first attempt roilant the light red ox with blazing yellow eyes and toppled horns fierce and untamable to the end was in the lead then I saw him as he took the strain in that last pull and it was pitiful to see the restless eager spirit fighting against the failing strength he looked desperate the thought seems fanciful about a dumb animal and perhaps it is what happened just afterwards makes it still vivid and fitted in very curiously with the superstitious notions of the boys we art spanned in order to repack the loads and roilant, who as front ox was the last to be released stood for a few moments alone while the rest of the cattle moved away then turning his back on them he gave a couple of low moaning bellows and walked down the road back to the drift again I had no doubt it was to drink but the boys stopped their work and watched him curiously and some remarks passed which were inaudible to me as the ox disappeared down the slope into the drift Jim called to his leader to bring him back and then turning to me added with his usual positiveness roilant is mad untangati bewitched he is looking for the dead ones he is going to die today the boy came back presently alone when he reached the drift he said roilant was standing breast high in the river and then in a moment, whether by step or slip he was into the flood and swept away the leader's account was received by the others in absolute silence a little tightening of the jaws and a little brightening of the eyes perhaps were all I could detect they were saturated with superstition and as pagan fatalists they accepted the position without a word I suggested to Jim that it was nothing but a return of roilant's old straying habit and probed him with questions that could get nothing out of him finally he walked off with an expressive shake of the head and the repetition of his former remark without a shade of triumph, surprise or excitement in his voice he is looking for the dead ones we were out of the fly then and the next day we reached fig tree that was the end of the last trek only three oxen reached Barbaton and they died within the week the ruin was complete End of Chapter 25 Chapter 26 of Jock of the Bushfelt this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Suzie Esay Hermannus South Africa March 2010 Jock of the Bushfelt by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick Chapter 26 our various ways when the trip was squared off and the boys paid there was nothing left Jim went home with wagons returning to Spitscorp once more for the last time grievously hurt in dignity because his money was handed to my friend the owner of the wagon to be paid out to him when he reached his crawl but his gloomy resentment melted as I handed over to him things for which there was no further need the wagons moved off and Jim with them but twice he broke back again to dance and shout his gratitude for it was wealth to him to have the reams and Furslach the odd yolks and straps and wagon tools the baking pot and pan and billies and they were little to me and Jim with all his faults had earned some title to remembrance for his loyalty my way had been his way and the hardest day had never been too hard for him he had seen it all through to the finish without a grumble and without a shirk his last shout like the bellow of a ball was an abhorious goodbye to Jock and Jock seemed to know it was something of an occasion for as he stood before me looking down the road at the receding wagons and at the dancing figure of Jim his ears were cocked his head was tilted a little sideways and his tail stirred gently it was at least a friendly nod in return a couple of weeks later I heard from my friend you'll be interested to hear that that lunatic of yours reached his crawl alright but that's not his fault he is a holy terror I have never known such a restless animal he is like a change in the weather you seem to feel him everywhere he is a holy terror you seem to feel him everywhere upsetting everything and everyone the whole time I suppose you hammered him into his place and kept him there but I wouldn't have him at a gift it is not that there was anything really wrong only there was no rest, no peace but he's a gay fighter that was a treat I never laughed so much in my life below the devil's contour we met a lot of wagons from Leidenburg and he had a row with one of the drivers like he nigger with dandy patched clothes the boy wouldn't fight just yelled blue murder while Jim walloped him I heard the yells and the whacks like the beating of carpets and that was Jim laying it on all over him legs, hands, back and arms with a sort of ferocious satisfaction every whack being accompanied by a husky suppressed shout fight shangan fight but the other fellow was not on for fighting he floundered about yelled for mercy and help and tried to run away but Jim simply played round him one spring put him alongside each time I felt sorry for the long nigger and was going to interfere and save him but just then one of his pals called out to their gang to come along and help and ran for his sticks it was rare fun then Jim dropped the patched filler and went like a charging line straight for the wagons where the gang were swarming for their sticks letting out right and left whenever he saw a nigger whether they wanted fight or not and in about five seconds the whole lot were headed for the bush with Jim in full chase goodness knows what the row was about as far as I can make out from your heathen it is because the other boy is a shangan and reads the bible Jim says this boy Sam is his name worked for you and ran away Sam says it is not true that Jim is a stranger to you there is something wrong in this though because when the row began Sam first tried to pacify your lunatic and I heard him sing out and answer to the first few lyrics goshle unganam goshle makokell gently friend gently makokell wow makokella ua bwla lameina wow makokella you will kill me he knew Jim right enough Sam was evident but it didn't help him he had to skip for it all the same I was glad to pay the noble Jim off and drop him at his crawl Sam was laid up when we left it is better to skip the change from the old life to the new when the luck as we called it was all out when each straw seemed the last for the camels breaking back and there was always still another to come but the turn came at last and all of coincidence reached out to make the impossible a matter of fact it is better to skip all that for it is not the story of jock and it concerns him only so far that in the end it made our parting unavoidable when the turn did come it was strange and at times almost bewildering to realise that the things one had struggled hardest against and regarded as the worst of luck were blessings in disguise and were all for the best so the new life began and the old one was put away but the new life for all its brighter and wider outlook and work of another class for all the charm that makes Barbaton now a cherished memory to all those who knew the early days was not all happy the new life has its hours of darkness too of almost unbearable check fever of restless sleepless longing for the old life of homesickness for the felt the freedom the roaming the nights by the fire and the days in the bush now and again would come a sleepless night with its endless procession of scenes in which some remembered from the past were interlinked with others imagined for the future and here and there in these long waking dreams came stabs of memory flashes of lightning vividness the head and staring eyes of the cwdubol as we had stood for a portion of a second face to face the yawning mouth of the maddened crocodile the mumba and its beady hateful eyes as it swept before the bushfire and there were others too that struck another chord the cattle the poor dumb beasts that had worked and died stepping stones in a man's career the books and chalk and blackboard of the school used, discarded and forgotten no, they were not forgotten and the memory of the last track was one long, mute reproach on their behalf they had paved the roadway for the juggernaught man all that was left of the old life was jock and soon there was no place for him he could not always be with me and when left behind he was miserable leading a life that was utterly strange to him without interest and among strangers while I was in Barbaton he accompanied me everywhere but absurd it seems there was a constant danger for him there greater though less glorious than those that he faced so lightly in the felt his deafness which passed almost unnoticed and did not seem to handicap him at all in the felt became a serious danger in camp for a long time he had been unable to hear a sound but he could feel sounds that is to say he was quick to notice anything that caused a vibration in the early days of his deafness I had been worried by the thought that he would be run over while lying asleep near or under the wagons and the boys were always on the lookout to stir him up but we soon found that this was not necessary at the first movement he would feel the vibration and jump up Jim realised this well enough for when wishing to direct his attention to the strange dogs or shungarns the villain could always dodge me by stamping or hammering on the ground and jock always looked up he seemed to know the difference between the sounds he could ignore such as chopping wood and those he ought to notice in camp Barbaton in those days was reckoned a mining camp and was always referred to as camp the danger was due to the number of sounds he would stand behind me as I stopped in the street and sometimes lie down and snooze if the weight was a long one and the poor old fellow must have thought it a sad falling off a wary monotonous change from the real life of the felt at first he was very watchful and the rumbling wheel or horses footfall drew his alert little eyes round to the danger point but the traffic and noise were almost continuous and one sound ran into another and thus he became careless or puzzled and on several occasions had narrowly escaped being run over or trodden on once in desperation after a bad scare I tried chaining him up and although his injured reproachful look hurt it did not weaken me I had hardened my heart to do it and it was for his own sake at lunchtime he was still squatting at the full length of the chain off the maton straw and with his head hanging in the most hopeless dejected attitude one could imagine it was too much for me the dog rarely felt it and when I released him there was no rejoicing in his freedom as the hated collar and chain dropped off he turned from me without a sign or sound of any sort and he walked off slowly lay down some ten yards away with his head resting on his paw he went to think not to sleep I felt abominably guilty and was conscious of wanting to make up for it all the afternoon once I took him out to Fig Tree Creek 15 miles away and left him with a prospective friend at whose camp in the hills it seemed he would be much better off and much happier when I got back to Barbaton that night he was waiting for me with a tag of chewed rope hanging round his neck not the least ashamed of himself but openly rejoicing in the meeting and evidently never doubting that I was equally pleased and he was quite right there but it could not go on one day as he lay asleep behind me a loaded wagon coming sharply round a corner as nearly as possible passed over him the wheel was within inches of his back as he lay asleep in the sand there was no chance to grab it was a rush and a kick that saved him and he rolled over under the wagon and found his own way out between the wheels a few days after this Ted passed through Barbaton and I handed Jock over to him to keep and care for until I had a better and safer home for him one day some two years later they turned up at my quarters an old friend of the transport days Harry Williams was on a long track up north to look for some supposed mine of fabulous richness of which there had been vague and secret reports from natives he stayed with me for some days and one evening after the bout of fever and egg had passed off and rest and good feeling had begun to pull him round he told us a story of their search it was a trip of much adventure but it was the end of his story that interested me most and that is all that needs to be told here they had failed to find the mine the native who was supposed to know all about it had deserted with all he could carry off there was short of food and money and art of medicines the delays had been great there were 200 miles from any white man there was no road but their own erratic track through the bush the rains had begun and the fever season set in the cattle they had won wagon and span were worn out the fever had gripped them and of the six white men three were dead one dying and two only able to crawl most of their boys had deserted one umfarn fit for work and the driver then delirious with fever completed the party the long journey was almost over and there were only a few treks from the store and camp for which they were making but they were so stricken and helpless it seemed as though that little was too much and they must die within reach of help the driver, a big Zulu was then raving mad he had twice run off into the bush and been lost for hours precious time and waning strength were spent in the search and with infinite effort and much good luck they had found him and induced him to return on the second occasion they had enticed him onto the wagon and as he lay half unconscious between bursts of delirium had tied him down flat on his back with wrists and ankles passed him to the buck rails it was all they could do to save him they had barely strength to climb up and pour water into his mouth from time to time it was midday then and their dying comrade was so far gone that they decided to abandon one track and wait for evening to allow him to die in peace later on when they thought it was all over they tried to scrape out a grave for him and began to pull out one old blanket to wrap round him in place of a shroud and coffin it was then that the man opened his eyes and faintly shook his head so they in spanned as best they could and made another track I met the man some years afterwards and he told me he had heard all they said but could only remember one thing and that was Harry's remark that two gin cases were not enough for a coffin so they would have to take one of the blankets instead in the morning they went on again it was then at most two tracks more to their destination but they were too weak to work or warp and the cattle were left to crawl along undriven but after half an hour's tracking they reached a bad drift where the wagon stuck the cattle would not face the pull the two toitering trembling white men did their best but neither had strength to use the whip the umfine led the oxen this way and that but there was no more effort in them the water had given out and the despairing helpless men saw death from thirst awaiting them within a few hours track of help and to add to the horror of it all the Zulu driver with thirst aggravating his delirium was a raving lunatic struggling and wrenching at his buns until the wagon rattled and uttering maniac yells and gabbling incessantly hours had gone by in hopeless effort but the oxen stood out at all angles and no two would pull together and answer to the feeble efforts of the fainting men then they came a lull in the sharts from the wagon and in answer to the little fool lwpers warning shot pas op bas look out master the white men looked round and saw the Zulu driver upon his knees freeing himself from the reams in another moment he was standing up full height a magnificent but most unwelcome sight there was a thin line of froth along the half open mouth the deep set eyes glared out under the eyebrows and forehead bunched into frowning wrinkles as for a few seconds he leaned forwards like a lion about to spring and scanned the men an oxen before him and then as they watched him in breathless silence he sprang lightly off the wagon picked up a small dry stick as he landed and ran up along the span he spoke to the after ox by name as he passed called to another and touched it into place thrust his way between the next one and the dazed white man standing near it tossing him aside with the brush of his arm as a plowshare spurns a sod and then they saw how the boy's madness had taken him his work and his span had called to him in his delirium and he had answered with low muttering short words hissed out and all the sounds and terms the cattle knew shot at them low pitched and with intensity repression he ran along the span crouching low all the time like a savage stealing up for a murderous attack the two white men stood back and watched reaching the front oxen he grasped the leading ream and pulled them round until they stood level for the straight pull out then down the other side of the span he ran with cat-like tread and activity talking to each and straightening them up as he had done with the others and when he reached the wagon again he turned sharply and overlooked the span one ox had swung round and stood out of line there was a pause of seconds and then the big zulu called the ox by name not loudly but in a deep low tone husky with intensity and the animal swung back into line again then out of the silence that followed came an electrifying yell to the span every bullock leaned into its yoke and the wagon went out with a rush and he drove them at a half trot all the way to the store without water, without help, without consciousness the little dry twig still in his hands and only his masterful intensity and knowledge of his work in span to see him through a mad troublesome savage said Harry Williams but one of the very best anyhow we thought so he saved us there was something very familiar in this and it was with a queer feeling of pride and excitement that I asked did he ever say to you me catch him lion live bye gum, you know him gym, gym ma cokel indeed I do good old gym years afterwards gym was still a driver working when necessary fighting when possible and enjoying intervals of lordly ease at his crawl where his wives and cattle stayed and prospered end of chapter 26