 CHAPTER VIII. LOST IN THE FELT. We were outspanned near some deep shaded water-holes, and at about three o'clock I took my rifle and wandered off in the hope of dropping across something for the larder, and having some sport during those three hours before the evening trek would begin. And, as there was plenty of spore of many kinds, the prospect seemed good enough. We had been going along slowly, it may have been for half an hour, without seeing more than a little stem-buck scaring away in the distance, when I noticed that Jock was rather busy with his nose, sniffing about in a way that looked like business. He was not sure of anything, that was clear, because he kept trying in different directions, not as you see a point to do, but very seriously, silently and slowly, moving at a cautious walk for a few yards, and then taking a look about. The day was hot and still, as usual at that time of the year, and any noise would be easily heard, so I had stopped to give Jock a chance of ranging about. At the moment we were in rather open ground, and finding that Jock was still very suspicious, I moved on where the bush was thicker, and we were less likely to be seen from a distance. As we got near the better cover, there was a rasping, squawky cry in a cockatoo's voice, and one of those ugly, big, big, go away birds came sailing up from behind, and flapped onto the trees we were making for. No doubt they have another name, but in the bush felt they were known as go away birds, because of this cry, and because they are supposed to warn the game when an enemy is coming. But they are not like the tick bird, or the rhinoceros bird, who stick close to their friends, and as soon as they see or hear anything suspicious, the flutter straight up filling the air with twittering cries of alarm. The go away birds do not feed on ticks, and have nothing to do with the game. You find them where there is no game, and it's always seemed to me that it is not concerned for the game at all, but simply a combination of vulgar curiosity, disagreeableness, and bad manners that make them interfere as they do. The reason why I do not believe the go away birds care a rap about the game, and only want to worry you, is often one of them will make up its mind to stick to you, and you can turn twists and double as many ways as you like, but as soon as you begin to walk on again, the rich thing will fly over your head, and purge 20 yards or so in front of you, screeching out, quack, at the top of its voice. There it will sit ready to fly off again as you come on, its ugly head on one side, and big hooked bill like an aggressive nose watching you mercilessly, as vigilant as a hungry fowl, and as cross as a tired nurse in a big family. They seem to know that you cannot shoot them without making more rowl and doing more harm than they do. I stood still for a few minutes to give this one a chance to fly away, and when it would not do so, but kept on screeching and craning its neck at me, I threw a stone at it. It ducked violently and gave a choking hysterical squawk of alarm and anger as the stone was close to its neck, then flying onto another tree a few yards off, screamed away more noisily than ever. Evidently the best thing to do was go ahead taking no notice of the creature and trusting that it would tire and leave me alone. So I walked off briskly. There was a slight rustling in the bush ahead of us as I stepped out, and then the sound of feet. I made a dash for the chance of a running shot, but it was too late, and all we saw was half a dozen beautiful kudu disappearing among the tree stems. I turned towards that go-away bird. Perhaps he did not like the look on my face, or the way I held the rifle, for he gave me one more snarling shriek as if he was emptying himself forever of his rage and spite, and flapped away. Jock was standing like a statue, leaning slightly forward, but with head very erect, jaws tight closed, and eyes looking straight in front, as bright as black diamonds. It was a bad disappointment, for that was the first time we had fairly and squarely come across kudu. However, it was still early, and the game had not been scared, but had gone off quietly, so hoping for another chance, we started off at a trot along the fresh spur. A big kudu bull stands as high as a bullock, and although they have the small shapely feet of antelope, the spur is heavy enough to follow at a trot except on stony ground. Perhaps they know this, for they certainly prefer the rough, hard ground when they can get it. We went along at a good pace, but with many short breaks to make sure of the spur in the stony parts, and it was pretty hot work, although clothing was light for hunting. A rough flannel shirt opened at the throat, and mole-skin trousers died with coffee, for khaki was unknown to us then, was the usual and we carried as little as possible. Generally, a water bottle filled with unsweetened cold tea, and a cartridge belt were all we took besides the rifle. This time I had less than usual, meaning to be out only a couple of hours at most, and to stick close to the road, I had pocketed half a dozen cartridges, and left both bandolier and water bottle behind. It was not long before we came upon the kudu again, but they were on the watch. They were standing in the fringe of some thick bush, broad side on, but looking back full at us, and as soon as I stopped to aim, the whole lot disappeared with the same easy movement, just melting away in the bush. If I had only known it, it was a hopeless chase for an inexperienced hunter. They were simply playing with me. The very things that seemed so encouraging to me, would have warned an old hand that running on the trail was quite useless. When they moved off quietly, it was not because they were full hardy or did not realize the danger. When they allowed us to catch up with them time after time, it was not because they did not expect us. When they stood on the edge of thick bush where we could see them, it was not stupidity. When they could disappear with an easy bound, it was not accident. It was all part of the game. They were keeping in touch with us, so that we could not surprise them. And whenever they stopped, it was always where they could see us coming through the thinner bush for a long way, and where they themselves could disappear into the thick bush in a couple of strides. Moreover, with each fresh run, they changed their direction with the objects of making it difficult for us to follow them up, and with the deliberate purpose of eventually reaching some favorite and safe haunt of theirs. An old hand might have known this, but a beginner goes blindly along the spur, exactly where they are expecting him. The chase was long and tiring, but there was no feeling of disappointment and no thought of giving it up. Each time they came in sight, we got more excited, and the end seemed nearer and more certain. I knew what the six animals were, four cows, one young bull, and their magnificent old fellow with a glorious head and great spiral horns. I carried his picture in my eye and could pick him out instantly wherever he stood and however motionless. Four, incredibly difficult it is to pick out still objects in bush before your eyes become accustomed to it. It is wonderful what you can do when your eye is in and you are cool and intent and know what you are looking for. I had the old bull mark down as mine and knew his every detail, his splendid bearing, strong shaggy neck with mane to the withers and bearded throat, the soft gray dove color of the coat with the white stripes, the easy balancing movement and carrying the massive horns as he canted away, and the trick of throwing them back to glide them through the bush. The last run was a long and hard one, and the kudu seemed to have taken matters seriously and made up their minds to put a safe distance between us and them. The spurring was often difficult and the pace hot. I was wet through from the hard work, and so winded that further effort seemed almost impossible. But we plotted away, the picture of the kudu bull luring me on and jock content with any chase. Without him the spur would have been lost long before. It was in many places too faint and scattered for me but he would sniff about quietly, and by his contented looks back at me and brisk wagging of that stumpy tail, show that he was on it again, and off we would go on another tired, straggling trot. But at last even his help was not enough. We had come to the end of the chase, and not a spur, scratch or sign of any sort was to be seen. Time had passed unnoticed, and it was only when it became clear that further search would be quite useless, that I looked at my watch and found it was nearly five o'clock. That was rather a shock, for it seemed reasonable to think that, as we had been out for pretty nearly two hours and going fast for most of the time, it would take almost as long to get back again. I had not once noticed our direction or looked at the sun, yet when it came for making for camp again, the idea of losing the way never occurred to me. I had not the slightest doubt about the way we had come, and it seemed the natural thing to go back the same way. A short distance from where we finally gave up the chase, there was a rise crowned by some good-sized rocks and bear of trees. It was not high enough to be fairly cold or corpy, but I climbed it on chance of getting a view of the surrounding country, to see if possible how far we had come. The rise was not sufficient, however, to get a view. There was nothing to be seen, and I sat down on the highest rock to rest for a few minutes and smoke a cigarette. It has over twenty years since that day, but that cigarette is not forgotten, and the little rise where we rested is still to me, cigarette corpy. I was so thoroughly wet from the heat and hard work that the matches in the breast pocket of my shirt were all damp, and the heads came off most of them before one was gently coaxed into giving a light. Five minutes rest was enough. We both wanted a drink, but there was no time then to hunt for water in such a dry part as that. So off we started for camp and jogged along for a good time, perhaps half an hour. Then little by little I began to feel some uncertainty about the way, and to look about from side to side for reminders. The start back had been easy enough. For that part of the ground where we had lost the spore had been gone over very thoroughly, and every object was familiar. But further back where we had followed the spore at a trot for long distances, and I had hardly raised my eyes from the ground before me, it was a very different matter. I forgot all about those long stretches in which nothing had been noticed except the kuduswa, and was unconsciously looking out for things in regular succession which we had passed at quite long intervals. Of course there were not to be found, but I kept on looking out for them, first feeling annoyed, then puzzled, then worried. Something had gone wrong, and we were not going back on our old tracks. Several times I looked about for the kuduswa as a guide, but it might be anywhere over a width of a hundred yards, and it seemed waste of precious time to search the dry grass-grown and leaf-strewn ground for that. At the first puzzled stop I tried to recall some of the more noticeable things we had passed during the chase. There were two flat top mimosas, looking like great rustic tables on a lawn, and we had passed between them. There was a large anteep with a twisty top like a crooked mud chimney, behind which the kudubu had calmly stood watching us approach, then a marulatory with a fork, like a giant catapult stick, and so on, with a score of other things all coming readily to mind. That was what put me hopelessly wrong. I began to look for particular objects instead of taking one direction and keeping to it. Whenever a flat top thorn, or quaint anteep, or patch of tambuki grass, or a forked marula came in sight, I would turn to see if it were the same one we had passed coming out. It was hopeless poly, of course, for in that country there were hundreds and thousands of such things all looking very much alike, and you could walk yourself to death zigzagging from one to another and never get any nearer home. When it comes to doing that sort of thing, your judgment is gone and you have lost your head, and the worst of it is you do not know it and would not believe it if anyone could tell you so. I did not know it, but it was nevertheless the fact. As the sun sank lower I carried on faster, but never long in one line, always turning this way and that to search for the particular marks I had in mind. At last we came to four trees in a line, and my heart gave a great jump, for these we had certainly passed before. In order to make quite sure I hunted for Kuduspur, there was none to be seen, but on an old molehill there was a single print of a dog's foot. Ha! Jocks! I exclaimed aloud, and jock himself at the sound of his name stepped up briskly and sniffed at his own spur. Close behind it there was a clear mark of a healed boot, and there were others further on. There was no doubt about it, there were jocks and mines, and I could have given a great whoop of delight. But a chilly feeling came over me when I realised that the footprints were leading the same way we were going, instead of the opposite way. What on earth did it mean? I laid the rifle down and sat on an old stump to think it out, and after puzzling over it for some minutes came to the conclusion that by some stupid blunder I must have turned round somewhere and followed the line of the kudu instead of going back on it. The only thing to be done was to write about face and go faster than ever, but, bad as the disappointment was, it was a certain consolation to know that we were on the track at last. That, at any rate, was a certainty, for, besides the footprints and general appearance of the country and many individual features were perfectly familiar, now that I had a good look at them from this point. At that moment I had not a shadow of doubt about the way, no more indeed than if we had been on the road itself. No suspicion of the truth occurred to me, yet the simple fact is we were not then on the kudu trail at all, but having made a complete circle had come onto our own trail at the molehill, and were now doing the circle the second time, but the reverse way now. The map on the opposite page is an attempt to show what happened. The details, of course, are only guesswork, but the general idea is correct. The kudu themselves had moved in a rough circle and in the first attempt to return to the wagons I had started back on their trail, but must have turned aside somewhere, and after that, by dodging about looking for special landmarks, have made a complete circle. Thus we eventually came back to the track on which we had started for home, and the things then that looked so convincingly familiar were things seen during the first attempt to return, and not, as I suppose, landmarks on the original kudu trail. Jock's footprints on the molehill were only a few hundred yards from the cigarette-copy, and about the same distance from where we had lost the kudus were, and we were, at that moment, actually within a mile of the wagons. It seemed incredible that one could be so near and not see or understand. Why should one walk in circles instead of taking a fairly straight line? How was it possible to pass cigarette-copy and not recognize it, for I must have gone within fifty yards or less of it? As for not seeing things, the answer is that the bush does not allow you to see much. The wagons, for instance, might as well have been a hundred miles away. As for cigarette-copy, things do not look the same unless seen from the same point. Moreover, there are heaps of things easily visible, which you would never see at all because you are looking only for something else. You carry a preconceived idea, a sort of picture in your eye, and everything that does not fit in with it is not noticed, not even seen. As for walking in circles, it is my belief that most people, just like most horses, have a natural leaning or tendency towards one side or the other, and unless checked unconsciously indulge it. When riding in the felt or any open country, you will notice that some horses will want to take any turn off to the right, and others go to the left, and only very few keep straight on. When out walking you will find that some people cannot walk on your right hand without coming across your front, or walking you into the gutter, others mule you from the left. Get them out in the open country, walk briskly and talk, then give way a little each time they bump you, and in a very little while you would have done a circle. If you have this tendency in the bush felt, where you cannot see any distant object to make for as a goal, any obstacle straight in front of you throws you off to the sides you inclined to, any openings in the trees which look like avenues or easy ways draw you, and between any two of them you will always choose the one on your favourite side. Finally a little knowledge is a dangerous thing in the felt as elsewhere. When you know enough to recognise marks without being able to identify or locate them, that is when you know you have seen them before but are not sure of when or where, goodness only knows what conclusion you will come to or what you will do. I had passed cigarette copy it's true, but when coming towards it from a new side it must have looked quite different, and besides that I had not been expecting it, not looking for it, not even thinking of it, had indeed said goodbye to it forever. When we turned back at the mole hill, beginning to do the circle for the second time, we must have passed quite close to cigarette copy again, but again it was from a different opening to the bush, and this time I had thought of nothing and seen nothing except the things I had picked out and recognised as we hurried along. To my half open beginner's eyes these things were familiar. We had passed them before, but that seemed to be good enough it must be right, so on we went simply doing the same circle a second time, but this time the reverse way. The length of my shadow stretching out before me as we started from the mole hill was a reminder of the need to haste, and we set off at a smart double. A glance back every few minutes to make sure that we were returning the way we had come was enough, and on we sped, confident on my part that we were securely on the line of the kudu and going straight for the wagons. It is very difficult to say how long this lasted before once more a horrible doubt arose. It was when we had done half the circle that I was pulled up as if I was struck in the face. The setting sun shining into my eyes as we crossed an open space stopped me. For as the bright gold dust light of the sunset made me fall, I remembered that it was my long shadow in front of me as we started from the mole hill that had urged me to hurry. We had started due east, we were going due west. What on earth was wrong? There were the trees and spaces we had passed, a blackened stump and ant there whole, all familiar. What then was the meaning of it? Was it only a temporary swerve? No, I tested that by pushing on further along the track we were following, and it held steadily to the west. Was it then all imagination about having been there before? No, that was absurd. And yet, and yet as I went on no longer trotting and full of hope but walking heavily and weighted with doubt, the feeling of uncertainty grew until I really did not know whether the familiar looking objects and scenes were indeed old acquaintances or merely imagination playing tricks in a country where every style and sample was copied a thousand times over. A few minutes later I again caught sight of the sunset glow. It was on my direct right. It meant that the trail had taken another turn while I could have sworn we were holding a course straight as an arrow. It was all a hopeless tangle. I was lost then, and knew it. It was not the dread of the night out in the bush, for after many months of roughing it that had no great tears for me, but the helpless feeling of being lost, and the anxiety and uncertainty about finding the road again, that gnawed at me and made me feel tucked up and drawn. I wondered when they would begin to look for me, if they would light big fires and fire shots, and if it would be possible to see or hear the signals. The light would not last much longer. The dimness, the silence, and the hateful doubt about the trail made it more and more difficult to recognize the line, so I thought it was time to fire a signal shot. There was no answer. It was silly to hope for one, for even if it had been heard, they would only have thought I was shooting at something, yet the clinging to hope was so strong that every 20 yards or so I stopped to listen for reply, and when, after what seemed an eternity, none came, I fired another. When you shoot in the excitement of the chase, the noise of the report does not strike you as anything out of the way, but a signal shot when you are alone and lost seems to fool the world with sound and to shake the earth itself. It has a most chilling effect, and the feeling of loneliness becomes acute as the echoes die away and still no answer comes. Another short spell of tiptoe walking and intent listening, and then it came to me that one shot as a signal was useless. I should have fired more and at regular intervals, like minute guns at sea. I felt in my pocket there were only four cartridges there and one in the rifle. There was the night before me, with the wolves and the lions, there was the food for tomorrow and perhaps more than tomorrow. There could be no minute guns. Two shots were all that could be spared, and I looked about for some higher and open ground where the sound would travel far and wide. On ahead of us to the right the trees seemed fewer and the light stronger, and there I came upon some rising ground bare of bush. It was not much for my purpose, but it was higher than the rest and quite open, and there were some rocks scattered about the top. The same old feeling of mixed remembrance and doubt came over me as we climbed it. It looked familiar and yet different. Was it memory or imagination? But there was no time for wonderings. From the biggest rock which was only waist high I fired off two of my precious cartridges and stood like a statue listening for the reply. The silence seemed worse than before. The birds had gone to roost, even the flies had disappeared. There was no sound at all but the beat of my own heart and jocks panting breath. There were three cartridges and a few damp matches left. There was no sun to dry them now, but I laid them out carefully on the smooth warm rock and hoped that one at least would serve to light our camp fire. There was no time to waste, while the light lasted I had to drag up wood for the fire and pick a place for the camp. Somewhere where the rocks behind and the fire in front would shelter us from the lines and hyenas and where I could watch and listen for signals in the night. There was plenty of wood nearby and thinking anxiously of the damp matches I looked about for dry tindry grass so that any spark would give a start for the fire. As I stooped to look for the grass I came on a patch of bare ground between the scattered tufts and in the middle of it there lay a half-burned match and such a flood of relief and hope surged up that my heart beat up in my throat. Where there were matches there have been men. We were not in the wilds then where white men seldom went, not off the beaten track, perhaps not far from the road itself. You must experience it to know what it meant at that moment. It drew on me to look for more. A yard away I found the burnt end of a cigarette and before there was time to realise why that should seem queer I came on eight or ten matches with their heads knocked off. For a moment things seemed to go round and round. I sat down with my back against the rock and a funny choky feeling in my throat. I knew there were my matches in cigarette and that we were exactly where we had started from hours before where we had gave up the chase of the kudu. I began to understand things then. Why places and landmarks seem familiar, why jock spore in the molehill had pointed the wrong way, why my shadow was in front and behind and besides me in turns. We had been going round in a circle. I jumped up and looked about me with a fresh light and it was all clear as noonday then, why this was the fourth time we had been on or close to some part of this same rise that day. Each time within fifty yards of the same place it was the second time I had sat on that very rock and there was nothing odd or remarkable about that either. For each time I had been looking for the highest point to spy from and had naturally picked the rock to rise and I had not recognised it only because we came upon it from different sides each time and I was thinking of other things all the while. All at once it seemed as if my eyes were opening and all was clear at last. I knew what to do, just make the best of it for the night. Listen for shots and watch for fires and if by morning no help came in that way and then strike a line due south for the road and follow it up until we found the wagons. It might take all day or even more but we were sure of water that way and one could do it. The relief of really understanding was so great that the thought of a night art no longer worried me. There was enough wood gathered and I stretched out on the grass to rest as there was nothing else to do. We were both tired out hot dusty and very very thirsty but it was too late to hunt for water then. I was lying on my side chewing a grass stem and jock lay down in front of me a couple of feet away. It was a habit of his. He liked to watch my face and often when I rolled over to ease one side and lie on the other he would get up when he found my back turned to him and come round deliberately to the other side and sling himself down in front of me again. There he would lie with his hind legs sprawled on one side, his front leg straight out and his head resting on his paws. He would lie like that without a move. His little dark eyes fixed on mine all the time until the stillness and the rest made him sleepy and he would blink and blink like a drowsy child fighting against sleep until it beat him and then one long drawn breath as he rolled gently over his side and jock was away in snooze land. In the loneliness of that evening I looked into his steadfast resolute face with its darker muzzle and bright faithful eyes that looked so soft and brown when there was nothing to do but got so beady black when it came to fighting. I felt very friendly to the comrade who was little more than a pup still and he seemed to feel something too for as I lay there chewing the straw and looking at him he stirred his stump of a tail in the dust an inch or so from time to time to let me know he understood all about it and that it was all right as long as we were together but an interruption came jock suddenly switched up his head put it a bit sideways as the man would do listened over his shoulder with his nose rather up in the air. I watched him and thinking it was probably only a back out to feed in the cool of the evening I tickled his nose with the long straw saying no good old chap only three cartridges left we must keep them. No dog likes to have his nose tickled it makes them sneeze and many dogs get quite offended because it hurts their dignity. jock was not offended but he got up and as if to show me that I was frivolous and not attending properly to business turned away from me and with his ears cocked began to listen again. He was standing slightly in front of me and I happened to notice his tail it was not moving it was drooping slightly and perfectly still and he kept it like that as he stepped quietly forward onto another sloping rock overlooking a side we had not yet been. Evidently there was something there but he did not know what and he wanted to find out. I watched him much amused by his calm business like manner he walked to the edge of the rock and looked out for a few minutes he stood stock still with his ears cocked and his tail motionless then his ears dropped and his tail wagged gently from side to side. Something an instinct or sympathy quickened by the day's experience that I had never quite known before taught me to understand and I jumped up thinking he sees something that he knows he is pleased. As I walked over to him he looked back at me with his mouth open and tongue out his ears still down and tail wagging he was smiling all over in his own way. I looked out over his head and there about three hundred yards were the oxen peacefully grazing and the herd boy in his red coat lounging along behind him. Shame at losing myself and dread of the other's chaff kept me very quiet and all they knew for many months was that we had a long fruitless chase after Kudu and hard work to get back in time. I had had my lesson and did not require to have it rubbed in and be roasted as plugins had been only Jock and I knew all about it but once or twice there were anxious nervous moments when it looked as if we were not the only ones in the secret. The big Zulu driver, Jim Makoko always interested in hunting and all that concerned Jock asked me as we were in spanning what I had fired the last two shots at and as I pretended not to hear or to notice the question he went on to say how he had told the other boys that it must have been a clip spring on a high rock or a monkey or a bird because the bullets had whistled over the wagons. I told him to in span and not talk so much and moved round the other side of the wagon. That night I slept hard but woke up once dreaming that several lions were looking down at me from the top of a big flat rock and Jock was keeping them off. Jock was in his usual place beside me lying against my blanket. I gave him an extra pat from the dream thinking good old boy we know all about it you and I and we're not going to tell but we've learned some things that we won't forget. And as I dropped off to sleep again I felt a few feeble sleepy pats against my leg and I knew it was Jock's tail wagging goodnight. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 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 February 2010 Jock of the Bushfield by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick Chapter 9 The Impala Stampede Not all our days were spent in excitement far far from it. For six or seven months the rains were too heavy the heat too great the grass too rank and the fever too bad in the bushfield for anyone to do any good there so that for more than half of the year we had no hunting to speak of as there was not much to be done about the Berg but even during the hunting season there were many off days and long spells when we never fired a shot. The work with the wagons was hard when we had full loads the trekking slow and at night so that there was always something to do in the daytime repairs had to be done oxen to be doctored grass and water to be looked for and so on and we had to make up sleep when we could. Even when the sport was good and the bag satisfactory there was usually nothing new to tell about it. So Jock and I had many a long spell when there was no hunting many a bad day when we had worked hard but had no sport and many a good day when we got what we were after and nothing happened that would interest anyone else every hunt was exciting and interesting for us even those in which we got nothing indeed some of the most interesting were those in which the worst disappointments occurred and after hard work and long chases the game escaped us to tell all that happened would be to tell the same old story many times over but indeed it would not be possible to tell all for there were some things the most interesting of all perhaps which only Jock knew after the fight with the diker there was never any doubt as to what he would do if allowed to follow up a wounded animal it made a deal of difference in the hunting to know that he could be trusted to find it and hold on or obey it until I could get up the bush was so thick that it was not possible to see more than a very few hundred yards at best and the country was so dry and rough that if a wounded animal once got out of sight only an expert tracker had any chance of finding it again Jock soon showed himself to be better than the rest of trackers for besides never losing the trail he would either pull down the buck or if too big for that attack and worry even the biggest of them to such an extent that they would have to keep turning on him to protect themselves and thus give me the chance to catch up but the first result of my confidence in him was some perfectly hopeless chases it is natural enough to give oneself the benefit of any dart the enthusiastic beginner always does so and in his case the lack of experience often creates a dart where none should have existed and the dart is often very welcome helping him out with explanations of the unflattering facts for the listener it is at best and worst only amusing or tiresome but for the person concerned it is different for as Rocky said it don't fool any one worth speaking of except yourself and there is the rub whenever a bullet struck with a thud and no dust appeared to show that it had hit the ground I thought that it must have wounded the buck and once you get the idea that the buck is hit all sorts of reasons appear in support of it there is hardly anything that the buck can do which does not seem to you to prove that it is wounded it bounds into the air races off quickly or goes away quite slowly it switches its tail or shakes its head it stops to look back or does not stop at all the spoiler looks awkward and scrappy the rust on the grass looks like dry blood if you start with the theory instead of weighing the evidence all these things will help to prove that theory they will in fact mean exactly what you want them to mean you put up a job on yourself to quote Rocky again and with the sweat of your brow and vexation of spirit you have to work that job out poor old jock had a few hard chases off to animals which I thought were wounded but were not hit at all not many however for he soon got hold of the right idea and was a better judge than his master he went off the instant he was sent but if there was nothing wounded that is if he could not pick up a blood spore he would soon show it by casting across the trail instead of following hard on it and I knew then there was nothing in it often he would come back of his own accord and there was something quite peculiar in his look when he returned from these wild goose chases that seemed to say no good you were quite wrong you missed the whole lot of them he would come up to me with his mouth wide open and tongue out a bit blown and stand still with his front legs wide apart looking up at me with that nothing in it sort of looked in his eyes and not a movement in his ears or tail and never a turn of his head to show the least interest in anything else I got to know that look quite well and to me it meant well that job was a failure finished and done for now is there anything else you can think of? what always seemed to me so curious and full of meaning was that he never once looked back in the direction of the unwounded game but seemed to put them out of his mind all together as of no further interest it is very different when he got onto the trail of a wounded buck and I had to call him off as was sometimes necessary when the chase looked hopeless or it was too late to go further he would obey of course no amount of excitement made him forget that but he would follow me in a sort of sideways trot looking back over his shoulder all the time and whenever there was a stop turning right round and staring intently in the direction of the game with his little tail moving steadily from side to side and his hind legs crouched as if ready to spring off the instant he got permission twice I thought he was lost forever through following wounded game the first occasion was also the first time that we got among the impala and saw them in numbers there is no more beautiful and fascinating sight than that of a troop of impala or spring buck rarely on the move and jumping in earnest the height and distance that they clear is simply incredible the impala's greater size and its delicate spiral horns give it a special distinction the spring buck's brilliant red and white and the divided crest which fans out along the spine when it is excited are unique but who can say which of the many beautiful antelopes is the most beautiful the oldest hunter will tell you of first one then another and then another as they come to mind just as he saw them in some supreme unforgettable moment and each at that moment has seemed quite the most beautiful animal in the world it is when they are jumping with the impala are seen at their best no one knows what they rarely can do for there are no fences in their country by which to judge or guess and as they run in herds it is practically impossible ever to find the take-off or landing place of any single animal once when hunting along the Wenla Mahali River we managed to turn seven of them into an old run ending in a rocky gorge but suspecting danger they would not face the natural outlet and turning up the slope cleared a barrier of thick thorn scrub and escape when we looked at the place afterwards we found that the bushes were nine feet high we were not near enough to see whether they touched the tops or cleared them all we were sure of was that they did not hesitate for a second to face a jump nine feet high at the top of a sharp rise and that all seven did it in follow my leader order with the most perfect ease and grace every hunter has seen a whole troop old and young following the example of the leader clear a road or donger 20 feet wide apparently in an effortless stride it is a fine sight and the steady stream of buck makes an arch of red and white bodies over the road looking like the curve of a great wave you stand and watch in speechless admiration and the first gasp at a glorious leap is followed by steady silent wonder at the regularity of the numbers then suddenly you see one animal for no apparent reason it may be fright or it may be frolic take off away behind the others shoot up and sail high above the arch of the rest and with head erect and feet comfortably gathered land far beyond them the difference between ease and effort and oh the perfect grace of both something is run from you a word a gasp and you stand breathless with wonder and admiration until the last one is gone you have forgotten to shoot but they have left you with something better than a trophy something which time will only glorify a picture that in daylight or in dark will fill your mind whenever you hear the name impala something of this I carried away from my first experience among them there were a few minutes of complete bewilderment a scene of the wildest confusion and flashes of incident that go to make a great picture which it is impossible to forget but then they are followed many hours of keen anxiety when I believed that jock was gone forever and it was long before that day found its place in the gallery of happy memories we were gone out after breakfast striking well away from the main road until we got among the thicker thorns where there was any amount of fresh spore and we were quite certain to find a troop sooner or later the day was so still the ground so dry and the bush so thick that the chances were the game would hear us before we could get near enough to see them several times I heard sounds of rustling bush or feet countering away something had heard us and made off unseen so I dropped down into the sandy bed of a dry donger and used it as a stalking trench from this it was easy enough to have a good look around every hundred yards or so without risk of being heard or seen we had been going along cautiously in this way for some time when peering over the bank I spied a single impala half hidden by a scraggie bush it seemed queer that there should be only one as their habit is to move in troops but there was nothing else to be seen indeed it was only the flicker of an air on this one that had caught my eye nothing else in the land moved jock climbed the bank also following so closely that he bumped against my heels and when I lay flat actually crawled over my legs to get up beside me and see what was on little by little he got into the way of imitating all I did so that after a while it was hardly necessary to say a word or make a sign to him he lay down beside me and raised his head to look just as he saw me do he was all excitement trembling like a wet spaniel on a cold day and instead of looking steadily at the impala as I was doing and as he usually did he was looking here there and everywhere it seemed almost as if he was looking at things not for them it was my comfortable belief at the moment that he had not yet spotted the buck but was looking about anxiously to find out what was interesting me it turned out as usual that he had seen a great deal more than his master had the stalking looked very easy as a few yards further up the donger there was excellent cover in some dense thorns behind which we could walk boldly across open ground to within easy range of the buck and get a clear shot we reached the cover all right but I had not taken three steps into the open space beyond before there was a rushing and scrambling on every side of me the place was a whirlpool of racing and plunging impala they came from every side and went in every direction as though caught suddenly in an enclosure and mad with fear and bewilderment were trying to find a way out how many there were it was quite impossible to say the bush was alive with them and the dust they kicked up the noise of their feet their curious sneezey snorts and their wild confusion completely bewildered me not one stood still never for a moment could I see any single animal clearly enough or long enough to fire at it another would cross it a bush would cover it as I aimed or it would leap into the air clearing bushes bucks and everything in its way and disappear again in the moving mass they seemed to me to whirl like leaves in a windy eddy my eyes could not follow them and my brain swam as I looked it was a hot day there was no breeze at all and probably the herd had been resting after their morning feed and drink when we came upon them by creeping up along the donger we had managed to get unobserved right into the middle of the dozing herd so that they were literally on every side of us at times it looked as if they were bound to stampede over us and simply trample us down in their numbers for in their panic they saw nothing and not one appeared to know what or where the danger was time and again as for part of a second I singled one out and tried to aim others would come racing straight for us compelling me to switch around to face them only to find them swerve with a dart or a mighty bound when within a few paces of me what jock was doing during that time I do not know it was all such a whirl of excitement and confusion that there were only a few clear impressions left on my mind one is of a buck coming through the air right at me jumping over the backs of two others racing across my front I can see now the sudden wriggle of its body and the look of terror in its eyes when it saw me and realized that it was going to land almost at my feet I tried to jump aside but it was not necessary with one touch on the ground it shot slantingly past me like a ricochet bullet another picture that always comes back is that of a splendid ram clearing the first of the dense thorn bushes that were to have been my cover in stalking he flew over it outlined against the sky in the easiest most graceful and most perfect curve imaginable it came back to me afterwards that he was eight or ten yards from me and yet I had to look up into the sky to see his white chest and gracefully gathered feet as he cleared the thorn bush like a soaring bird one shot out of three or four fired in desperation as they were melting away it's something the unmistakable thud of the bullet told me so that time it was the real thing and when you hear the real thing you cannot mistake it the wounded animal went off with the rest and I followed with jock ahead of me hot on the trail a hundred yards further on where jock with his nose to the ground had raced along between some low stones in a marula tree I came to a stop bush all round me not a living thing in sight and all as silent as the grave on one of the smooth hot stones there was a big drop of blood and a few yards on I found a couple more here and there along the spore there were smears on the long yellow grass and it was clear enough judging by the height of the blood marks from the ground that the impala was wounded in the body probably far back as there were no frothy bubbles to show a lung shot I knew that it would be a long chase unless jock could head the back off and bay it but unless he could do this at once he was so silent in his work that there was little chance of finding him the trail became more and more difficult to follow the blood was less frequent the hot sun dried it so quickly that it was more than I could do to pick it out from the red streaks on the grass and many coloured leaves so I gave it up and sat down to smoke and wait half an hour passed and still no job then I wondered about whistling and calling for him calling until the sound of my own voice became quite uncanny the only sound in an immense silence two hours passed in useless calling and listening searching and waiting and then I gave it up altogether and made back for the wagons trying to hope against my real conviction that jock had struck the road somewhere and had followed it to the outspan instead of coming back on his own trail through the bush to me but there was no jock at the wagons and my heart sank although it was not surprised it was nearly four hours since he had disappeared and it was as sure as anything could be that something extraordinary must have happened or he would have come back to me long before this no one at the wagons had seen him since we started out together and there was nothing to be done but to wait and see what would happen it was perfectly useless to look for him if alive and well he was better able to find his way than the best tracker that ever lived if dead or injured and unable to move there was not one chance in a million of finding him there was only one cat for whom jock would take any notice of or would allow to touch him the great big Zulu named Jim Makokel Jim was one of the real fighting Zulu breed and the pride he took in jock and the sort of partnership that he claimed in tastes, disposition and exploits began the day jock fought the table leg and grew stronger and stronger to the end Jim became jock's diverted champion and more than once as will be seen showed that he would face man or beast to stand by him when he needed help this day when I returned to the wagons Jim was sitting with the other drivers in the group around the big pot of porridge I saw him give one quick look my way and heard him say sharply to the others where is their dog where is jock he stood there looking at me with a big wooden spoon full of porridge stopped on the way to his mouth in a few minutes they all knew what had happened the other boys took it calmly saying composedly that the dog would find his way back but Jim was not calm it was not his nature at one moment he would agree with them swamping them with a flood of reasons why jock the best dog in the world would be sure to come back and the next hot with restless excitement would picture all that the dog might have been doing and all that he might still have to face and then break off to proclaim loudly that everyone ought to go out and hunt for him Jim was not practical or reasonable he was too excitable for that but he was very loyal and it was his way to show his feelings by doing something generally and preferably by fighting someone knowing only too well how useless it would be to search for jock I lay down under the wagon to rest and wait after half an hour of this Jim could restrain himself no longer he came over to where I lay and with a look of severe disapproval and barely controlled indignation asked me for a gun saying that he himself meant to go out and look for jock it would be narrow the mark to say that he demanded a gun he was so genuinely anxious and so indignant at what he considered my indifference that it was impossible to be angry and I let him talk away to me and at me in his excited bullying way he would take no answer and listen to no reason so finally to keep him quiet I gave him the shotgun and off he went muttering his opinions of everyone else a great springy striding picture of fierce resolution he came back nearly three hours later silent morose hot and dusty he put the gun down beside me without a word of disgust and as he strode across to his wagon called roughly to one of the drivers for the drinking water lifting the bucket to his mouth he drank like an ox and slammed it down again without a word of thanks then sat down in the shade of the wagon filled his pipe and smoked in silence the tricking hour came and passed but we did not move the sun went down and in the quiet of the evening we heard the first jackals yapping the first warning of the night there were still lions and tigers in those parts and any number of hyenas and wild dogs and the darker it grew and the more I thought of it the more hopeless seemed jock's chance of getting through a night in the bush trying to work his way back to the wagons it was almost dark when I was startled by a yell from Jim muckerel and looking round saw him bound out into the road shouting he has come he has come what did I tell you he ran out to jock stooping to pet and talk to him and then in a lower voice and with growing excitement went on rapidly see there blood see it he has fought he has killed dog of all dogs jock jock and his savage song of triumph broke off in a burst of rough tenderness and he called the dogs name five or six times with every note of affection and welcome in his deep voice jock took no notice of Jim's dancing out to meet him nor of his shots in demons and antics slowing his tired trot down to a walk he came straight on to me flickered his ears a bit wagged his tail cordially and gave my hand a splashy lick as I patted him then he turned round in the direction he had just come from looked steadily out cocked his ears well up and moved his tail slowly from side to side for the next half hour or so he kept repeating this action every few minutes but even without that I knew that it had been no wild goose chase and that miles away in the bush there was something lying dead which he could show me if I would but follow him back again to see what had happened in the eight hours since he had dashed off in pursuit can only be guessed that he had pulled down the impala and killed it seemed certain and what a chase and what a fight it must have been to take all that time buck could not have been so badly wounded in the body as to be disabled or it would have died in far less time than that then what a fight it must have been to kill an animal six or eight times his own weight and armed with such horns and hooves but was it only the impala or had the hyenas and wild dogs followed up the trail as they so often do and did jock have to fight his way through them too he was hollow flanked and empty parched with thirst and so blown that his breath still caught in suffocating chokes he was covered with blood and sand his beautiful golden coat was dark and stained his white front had disappeared and there on his chest and throat on his jaws and ears down his front legs even to the toes the blood was caked on him mostly black and dried but some still red and sticky he was a little lame in the one full leg but there was no cut or swelling to show the cause there was only one mark to be seen over his right eye there was a bluish line where their hair had been shaved off clean leaving the skin smooth and unbroken what did it was it horn hoof tooth or what only jock knew hovering round and over me pacing backwards and forwards between the wagons like a caged animal jim growing more and more excited fill the air with his talk his shots and savage song wanting to help but always in the way ordering and thrusting the other boys here and there he worked himself up into a wild frenzy it was the zulu fighting blood on fire and he saw red everywhere i called for water water raw jim bring water and glaring round he made a spring stick in hand at the nearest kaffa the boy fled in terror with jim after him for a few paces and bought a bucket of water jim snatched it from him and with the resounding thump on the ribs sent the unlucky kaffa sprawling on the ground jock took the water in great gulky bites broken by pauses to get his breath again and jim paced up and down talking talking talking talking talking to me to the others to the kaffas to jock to the world at large to the heavens and to the dead his eyes glared like a wild beasts and gradually little seams of frock gathered in the corners of his mouth as he poured out his cataract of words telling of all jock had done and might have done and would yet do comparing him with the fighting heroes of his own race and wandering off into vivid recitals of single episodes and great battles seizing his sticks shouting his war cries and going through all the mimicry of fight with the wild frenzy of one possessed time after time i called him and tried to quiet him but he was beyond control once before he had broken out like this i had asked him something about the zulu war and that had started a flood of memories and excitement in the midst of some descriptions i asked why they killed the children and he turned his glaring eyes on me and said in gorse you are my in gorse but you are white if we fight tomorrow i will kill you you are good to me you have saved me but if our own king says kill we kill we see red we kill all that lives i must kill you your wife your mother your children your horses your oxen your dog the fowls that run with the wagons all that lives i kill the blood must run and i believed him for that was the zulu fighting spirit so this time i knew it was useless to order or to talk he was beyond control and the fit must run its course the night closed in and there was quiet once more the flames of the camp fires had died down the big thorn logs had burnt into growing coals like the pink crisp hearts of giant watermelons jocley sleeping tired out but even in his sleep came little spells of panting naan then like the aftersocks of a child that has cried itself to sleep we lay rolled in our blankets and no sound came from where the cat has slipped but jim only jim sat on his rough three-legged stool elbows on his knees and hands clasped together staring intently into the coals the fit worked slowly off and his excitement died gradually away naan then there was a fresh burst but always milder and with longer intervals as you may see it in the dying fire or at the end of a great storm slowly but surely he subsided until at last there were only occasional mutterings of how jock followed by the zulu click the expressive shake of the head and that appreciate of half grunt half chuckle by which they pay tribute to what seems truly wonderful he wanted no sleep that night he sat on waiting for the morning trick staring into the red coals and thinking of the bygone glories of his race in the days of the mighty shaka that was jim when the fit was on him transported by some trifling and unforeseen incident from the hum drum of the road to the life he had once lived with splendid recklessness end of chapter nine chapter 10 of jock of the bush felt this is a libravox recording all libravox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit libravox.org recording by suzie s a hermanus south africa february 2010 jock of the bush felt by sir persie Fitzpatrick chapter 10 jock's night out jock was lost twice that is to say he was lost to me and as i thought forever it came about both times through his following up wounded animals and leaving me behind and happened in the days when our hunting was all done in foot when i could afford a horse and could keep pace with him that difficulty did not trouble us the experience with the impala had made me very careful not to let him go unless i felt sure that the game was hard hit and that he would be able to pull it down or bear it but it was not always easy to judge that a broken leg shows at once but a body shot is very difficult to place and animals shot through the lungs and even through the lower part of the heart often go away at a cracking pace and are out of sight in no time perhaps to keep it up for miles perhaps to drop dead within a few minutes after that day with the impala we had many good days together and many hard ones we had our disappointments but we had our triumphs and we were both getting to know our way about bad agrees buck of many kinds had fallen to us but so far as i was concerned there was one disappointment that was not to be forgotten the picture of that kudu bull as he appeared for the last time looking over the anteep the day we were lost was always before me i could not hear the name or see the spur of kudu without a pang of regret and the thought that never again would such a chance occur kudu like other kinds of game were not to be found everywhere they favored some localities more than others and when we passed through their known haunts chances of smaller game were often neglected in the hope of coming across the kudu i could not give up whole days to hunting for we had to keep moving along with the wagons all the time or it would have been easy enough in many parts to locate the kudu and make sure of getting a good bag as it was on three or four occasions we did come across them and once i got a running shot but missed this was not needed to keep my interest in them alive but it made me keener than ever day by day i went out always hoping to get my chance and when it last the chance did come it was quite in accordance with the experience of many others that it was not in the least expected the great charm of bush felt hunting is its variety you never know what will turn up next the only certainty being that it will not be what you are expecting the herd boy came in one afternoon to say there was a stembuck feeding among the oxen only a couple of hundred yards away he had been quite close to it he said and it was very tame game so readily alarmed by the sight of white men will often take no notice of natives allowing them to approach to very close quarters they are also easily stalked under the cover of cattle or horses and much more readily approached on horseback than on foot the presence of animals seems to give them confidence or to excite mild curiosity without alarm and thus distract attention from the man in this case the bonnie little red brown fellow was not a bit scared he maintained his presence of mind admirably from time to time he turned his head our way and with his large but shapely and most sensitive ears thrown forward examined us frankly while he moved slightly one way or another so as to keep under cover of the oxen and busily continue his browsing in and among some seventy head of cattle we played hide and seek for quite a while I'm not daring to fire for fear of hitting one of the bullocks until at last he found himself maneuvered out of the troop and then without giving me a chance he was off into the bush in a few frisky skips I followed quietly knowing that as he was on the feed and not scared he would not go far moving along silently under good cover I reached a thick scrubby bush and peered over the top of it to search the grass under the surrounding thorn trees for the little red brown form I was looking about low down in the racity grass for he was only about twice the size of jock and was not easy to spot when a movement on a higher level caught my eye it was just the flip of a fly tickled ear but it was a movement where all else was still and instantly the form of a kudukau appeared before me as a picture is thrown on a screen by a magic lantern there it stood within 50 yards the soft gray and white looking still softer in the shadow of the thorns but as clear to me and as still as a figure carved in stone the stem of a mimosa hid the shoulders but all erased was plainly visible as it stood there utterly unconscious of danger the tree made a dead shot almost impossible but the risk of trying for another position was too great and I fired the thud of the bullet and the tremendous bound of the kudu straight up in the air told that the shot had gone home but these things were for a time forgotten in the surprise that followed at the sound of the shot 20 other kudu jumped into life in sight before me the one I had seen in shot was but one of a herd all dozing peacefully in the shade and strangest of all it was the one that was farthest from me to the right and left of this one at distances from 15 to 30 yards from me the magnificent creatures had been standing and I had not seen them it was the flicker of this one's ear alone that had caught my eye my bewilderment was complete when I saw the big bull of the herd start off 20 yards on my right front and pass away like a streak in a few sweeping strides it was a matter of seconds only and they were all out of sight all except the wounded one which had turned off from the others for all the flurry and confusion I had not lost sight of her and noting her tucked up appearance and shortened strides set jock on her trail believing that she would be down in a few minutes it is not necessary to go over it all again it was much the same as the impala chase I came back tired disappointed and beaten and without jock it was only after darkness set in that things began to look serious when I came to midnight with the camp wrapped in silence and in sleep and there was still no sign of jock things looked very black indeed I heard his panting breath before it was possible to see anything it was past one o'clock when he returned as we had missed the night trek to wait for jock I decided to stay on where we were until the next evening and to have another try for the wounded kudu with the chance of coming across the trooper game by a daybreak jock did not seem much the worse for the night's adventures whatever they were there were no marks of blood on him this time there were some scratches which might have been caused by thorns during the chase and odd-looking grazes on both hind quarters near the hip bones as though he had been roughly graveled there he seemed a little stiff and flinched when I pressed his sides and muscles but he was as game as ever when he saw the rifle taken down the kudu had been shot through the body and even without being run to death by jock must have died in the night or have lain down and become too cold and stiff to move if not discovered by wild animals there was a good chance of finding it untouched in the early morning but after sunrise every minute's delay meant fresh risk from the arse foothills there is very little which if left uncovered will escape their eyes you may leave your back for help to bring the meat and certain from the most careful scrutiny that there's not one of these creatures in sight and return in half an hour to find nothing but a few bones the horns and hoofs a rag of skin and a group of disgusting gorged vultures swatting in a patch of ground all smeared torn and feather strewn from their voracious struggles in the winter sky unreleaved by the least fleck of clouds a dome of spotless polished steel nothing you would think can move unseen yet they are there in the early morning from their white splashed airies in some distant mountain they slide off like a launching ship into their sea of blue and striking the currents of the upper air sweep round and upwards in immense circles their huge motionless wings carrying them higher and higher until they are lost to human sight lie on your back in some dense shade where no sidelight strike in but where an opening above forms a sort of natural telescope to the sky and you may see tiny specks where nothing could be seen before take your field glasses the specks of vultures circling up on high look again and far far above you will see other specks and for ought you know there may be others still beyond how high are they and what can they see from there who knows but this is sure that within a few minutes scores will come swooping down in great spiral rushes where not one was visible before my own belief is they watch each other tear upon tear away into their limitless heavens watching jealously as hungry dogs do for the least suspicious sign to swoop down and share the spoil in the dewy cool of the mornings we soon reached the place where jokered left me behind the evening before and from that on he led the way it was much slower work then as far as i was concerned there was nothing to guide me and it was impossible to know what he was after did he understand that it was not fresh game but the wounded could do that i wanted and if so was he following the scent of the old chase or merely what he might remember of the way he had gone it seemed impossible that the scent could lie in that dry country for 12 hours yet it was clearly knows more than eyes that guided him he went ahead soberly and steadily and once when he stopped completely to sniff at a particular tuft of grass i found out what was helping him the grass was well streaked with blood quite dry it is true still it was blood a mile or so on we checked again where the grass was trampled and the ground scored with squir the heavy squir were all in a ring four or five yards in diameter outside this the grass was also flattened and there i found a dog's footprint but it had no further interest to jok while i was examining it he picked up the trail and trotted on we came upon four or five other rings where they had fought the last of these was curiously divided by a fallen tree and it puzzled me to guess how they could have made a circle with a good sized trunk some two feet high intersecting it i examined the dead tree and found a big smear of blood and a lot of coarse grayish hair on it evidently the kudu had backed against it while facing jock and had fallen over it renewing the fight on the other side there were also some golden hairs sticking on the stumpy end of a broken branch which may have had something to do with jock's scraped sides then for a matter of a hundred yards or more it looked as if they had fought and tumbled all the way jock was some distance ahead of me trotting along quietly when i saw him look up give that rare growling bark of his one of suppressed but real fury lower his head and charge then came heavy flapping and scrambling and the wind of huge wings as twenty or thirty great lumbering arse-whuckles flopped along the ground with jock dashing furiously about among them taking flying leapses them as they rose and his jaw was snapping like rat traps as he missed them on a little open flat of hard baked sand lay the striped frame of the kudu the head and leg bones were missing meat strip fragments were scattered all about fifty yards away amongst some bushes jock found the head and still further afields where the remains of skin and thigh bones crushed almost beyond recognition no arse-wuchle had done this it was hyena's work the high shoulders slinking brute with jaws like a stone crusher alone cracks bones like those and bigger ones which even the lion cannot tackle i walked back a little way and found the scene of the last stand all harrowed bare but there was no spur of kudu or of jock to be seen there only prints innumerable of wild dogs hyenas and jackals and some traces of where the carcass no doubt already half eaten had been dragged by them in the effort to tear it asunder jock had several times shown that he strongly objected to any interference with his quarry other dogs caffers and even white men had suffered or been badly scared for rashly laying hands on what he had pulled down without any doubt he had expected to find the kudu there and had dealt with the arse-wuchles as trace passes otherwise he would not have tackled them without word from me it was also sure that until past midnight he had been there with the kudu watching or fighting then when had the hyenas and wild dogs come that was the question i would have given much to have answered but only jock knew that i looked at him the mane on his naked shoulders which had risen at the site of the vultures was not flat yet he was sniffing about slowly and carefully on the spur of the hyenas and wild dogs and he looked fight all over but what it all meant was beyond me i could only guess just as you will what had happened out in that silent ghostly bush that night end of chapter 10 chapter 11 of jock of the bushvelts this is a libravox recording all libravox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit libravox.org reading by suzie essay in a manus south africa january 2010 jock of the bushvelts by sir persie pitts patrick chapter 11 the kudu ball jock had learned one very clever trick in pulling down wounded animals it often happens when you come unexpectedly upon game that they are off before you see them and the only chance you have of getting anything is with a running shot if they go straight from you the shot is not a very difficult one although you see nothing but the lifting and falling hind quarters as they counter away and a common result of such a shot is the breaking of one of the hind legs between the hip and the hawk jock made his discovery while following a reed buck which i had wounded in this way he had made several tries at its nose and throat but the buck was going too strongly and was out of reach moreover it would not stop or turn when he headed it but charged straight on bounding over him in trying once more for the throat he canned against the buck's shoulder and was sent rolling yards away this seemed to madden him racing up behind he flew at the dangling leg caught at the shin and thrusting his feet well out simply dragged until the buck slowed down and then began furiously tugging sideways the crossing of the legs brought the wounded animal down immediately and jock had it by the throat before it could rise again everyone who is good at anything has some favorite method or device of his own that was jocks it may have come to him as it comes to many by accident but having once got it he perfected it and use it whenever it was possible only once he made a mistake and he paid for it very nearly with his life he had already used this device successfully several times but so far only with the smaller buck this day he did what i should have thought to be impossible for a dog three or four times his size i left the scene of torn carcass and crunched bones consumed by regret and disappointment each fresh detail only added to my feeling of disgust but jock did not seem to mind he jumped up briskly as soon as i started walking in earnest as though he recognized that we were making a fresh start and he began to look forward immediately the little bear flat where the kudu had fallen for the last time was at the head of one of those depressions which collected water of the summer floods and changing gradually into shallow valleys are eventually scoured out and become dongers dry in winter but full charged with muddy flood in summer which drain the bush felt to its rivers here and there where an impermeable rock formation crosses these channels there are deep pools which except in years of drought last all through the winter and these are the drinking places of the game i followed this one down a couple of miles without any definite purpose until the sign of some greener and denser wild figs suggested that there may be water and perhaps a reedbuck or a daika nearby as we reached the trees jock showed unmistakable signs of interest in something and with the utmost caution i moved from tree to tree in the shady grove towards where it seemed the waterhole might be there were bushy wild plums flanking the grove and beyond them the ordinary scattered thorns as i reached this point and stopped to look out between the bushes onto the more open ground a kudu car will quietly up the slope from the water but before there was time to raise the rifle her easy stride had carried her beyond the small mimositry i took one quick step out to follow her up and found myself face to face at less than a dozen yards with a grand kudu bull it is impossible to convey in words any real idea of the scene and how things happened of course it was only for a fraction of a second that we looked straight into each other's eyes then as if by magic he was round and going from me with an overwhelming rush of speed and strength and weight combined yet it is the first sight that remains with me the proud head the huge spiral horns and the wide soft staring eyes before the wildness of panic had stricken them the picture seems photographed on eye and brain never to be forgotten the whirlwind of dust and leaves marked his course and through it i fired unsteadied by excitement and hardly able to see then the right hand leg swung out and the great creature sank for a moment almost to the ground and the sense of triumph the long for an unexpected success went to my head like a rush of blood there had been no time to aim and the shot a real snap shot was not at all a bad one it was after that that the natural effect of such a meeting and such a chance began to tell thinking it all out beforehand does not help much for things never happen as they are expected to and even months of practice amongst the smaller kinds will not ensure a steady nerve when you just come face to face with big game there seems to be too much at stake i fired again as the kudu recovered himself but he was then 70 or 80 yards away and partly hidden at times by trees and scrub he struck up the slope following the line of the troop through the scattered thorns and there running hard and dropping quickly to my knees for steadier aim i fired again and again but each time a longer shot and more obscured by the intervening bush and no telltale thud came back to cheer me on forgetting the last night's experience forgetting everything except how we had twice chased and twice lost them seeing only another and the grandest prize slipping away i sent jock on and followed as fast as i could once more the kudu came in sight just a chance at 400 yards as he reached an open space on rising ground jock was already closing up but still unseen and the old noble fellow turned full broadside to me as he stopped to look back once more i knelt gripping hard and holding my breath to snatch a moment steadiness and fired but i missed again and as the bullet struck under him he plunged forwards and disappeared over a rise at the moment that jock dashing out from the scrub reached his heels the old martini carbine had one bad fault even i could not deny that years of rough and careless treatments and all sorts of weather for it was only a discarded old mountain police weapon had told on it and both in barrel and breach it was well pitted with rust scars one result of this was that it was always jamming and unless the cartridges were kept well greased the empty shells would stick and the ejector failed to work and this was almost sure to happen when the carbine became hot from quick firing it jammed now and fearing to lose sight of the chase i dared not stop a second but ran on struggling from time to time to reach the breach open reaching the place where they had disappeared i saw with intense relief and excitement jock and the kudu having it out less than a hundred yards away the kudu's leg was broken right up in the ham and it was a terrible handicap for an animal so big and heavy but his nimbleness and quickness were astonishing using the sound hind leg as a pivot he swung round always facing his enemy jock was in an art here there and everywhere as a buzzing fly torments one on a hot day and indeed to the kudu just then he was the fly and nothing more he could only annoy his big enemy and was playing with his life to do it sometimes he tried to get round sometimes pretended to charge straight in stopping himself with all four feet spread just out of reach then like a red streak he would fly through the air with a snap for the kudu's nose it was a fight for life and a grand sight for the kudu in spite of his wound easily held his own no doubt he had fought out many a life and death struggle to win and hold his place as lord of the herd and knew every trick of attack and defense maybe two he was blazing with anger and contempt for this persistent little gadfly that worried him so and kept out of reach sometimes he snorted and fainted to charge other times back slowly giving way to draw the enemy on then with a sudden lunge the great horn switched like his skies with a tremendous recharge easily covering the spot where jock had been a fraction of a second before there were pauses too in which he watched his tormentor steadily with occasional impatient shakes of the head all raising to its full height towered up a monument of splendid and contemptuous indifference looking about with big angry but unfrightened eyes for the herd his herd that had deserted him all with the slight toss of his head he would walk limpingly forward forcing the ignored jock before him then interrupted in a noise by a flying snap at his nose he would spring forward and strike with the sharp club and forfeit zip zip zip at jock as he landed any one of the vicious flashing stabs would have pinned him to the earth and finished him but jock was never there keeping what cover there was i came up slowly behind them struggling and using all the foresight dared short of smashing the lever to get the empty cartridge out at last one of the turns of the fight bought me in view and the kudu dashed off again for a little way the pace seemed as great as ever but it soon died away the driving power was gone the strain and weight on the one sound leg and the tripping of the broken one were telling and from that on i was close enough to see it all in the first rush the kudu seemed to dash right over jock the swirl of dust and leaves in the bulk of the kudu hiding him then i saw him close abreast looking up at it and making furious jumps for its nose alternately from one side and the other as they raced along together the kudu holding its nose high and well forward as they do when on the move with the horns thrown back almost horizontally was out of his reach and galloped heavily on completely ignoring his attacks there is a suggestion of grace and poise in the movement of the kudu bull's head as he gallops through the bush which is one of his distinctions above the other antelopes the same supple balancing movement that one notes in the native girls bearing their calabashes of water upon their heads is seen in the neck of the kudu and for the same reason the movements of the body are softened into mere undulations and the head with its immense spiral horn seemed to sail along in voluntary company indeed almost as though it were bearing the body below at the fourth or fifth attempt by jock a spurt from the kudu brought him canoning against its shoulder and he was sent rolling unnoticed yards away he scrambled instantly to his feet but found himself again behind it may have been this fact that inspired the next attempt or perhaps he realized that attack in front was useless for this time he went determinedly for the broken leg it swung about in wild eccentric curves but at the third or fourth attempt he got it and hung on and with all force spread he dragged along the ground the first startled spring of the kudu jerked him into the air but there was no let go now and although dried along the rough ground and dashed among the scrub sometimes swinging in the air and sometimes sliding on his back he pulled from side to side in futile attempts to throw the big animal ineffectual and even hopeless as it looked at first jock's attack soon began to tell the kudu made wild efforts to get at him but with every turn he turned two and did it so vigorously that the staggering animal swayed over and had to plunge violently to recover its balance so they turned this way and that until a wild plunge swung jock off his feet throwing the broken leg across the other one then with feet firmly planted jock tugged again and the kudu trying to regain its footing was tripped by the crossed leg and came down with a crash as it fell jock was round and fastened on the nose but it was no deca impala or reedbuck that he had to deal with this time the kudu gave a snort of indignation and shook its head as a terrier shakes a rat so it shook jock whipping the ground with his swinging body and with another indignant snort and toss of the head flung him off sending him skidding along the ground on his back the kudu had fallen on the wounded leg and failed to rise with the first effort jock was still slithering along the ground on his back was tearing at the air with his feet in his mad haste to get back to the attack and as he scrambled up he raced in again with head down and little eyes black with fury he was too mad to be wary and my heart stood still as long as the horns went round with a swish one black point seemed to pierce him through and through showing a foot out the other side and a jerky twist of the great head sent him twirling like a tip-cat eight or ten feet up in the air it had just missed him passed under his stomach next to his hind leg but until he dropped with a thud and tearing and scrambling to his feet he raced in again I felt certainly he had been gored through the kudu was up again then I had rushed in with rifle club with the wild idea of stunning it before it could rise but was met with the lowered horns and unmistakable signs of charging and beat retreat quite as speedy as my charge it was a running fight from that on the instant the kudu turned to go jock was onto the leg again and nothing could shake his hold I had to keep it a respectful distance for the bull was still good for a furious charge even with jock hanging on and eyed me in the most unpromising fashion whenever I attempted to headed awful even to come close up the big eyes were blood shot then but there was no look of fear in them they blazed with baffled rage impossible as it seemed to shake jock awful to get away from us and in spite of the broken leg and loss of blood the furious attempts to beat us off did not slacken it was a desperate running fight and right bravely he fought it to the end partly barring the way in front were the whiten trunks and branches of several trees struck down by some storm of the year before and running ahead of the kudu I made for these hoping to find a stick straight enough for a ramrod to force the empty cartridge out as I reached them the kudu made for me with a half dozen plungers that sent me flying off for other cover but the broken leg swayed over one of the branches and jock with feet planted against the tree hung on and the kudu turning furiously on him stumbled floundered tripped and came down with a crash amongst the crackling wood once more like a flash jock was over the fallen body and had fastened on the nose but only to be shaken worse than before the kudu literally flogged the ground with him and for an instant I shut my eyes it seemed as if the plucky dog would be beaten into pulp the bull tried to chop him with his forefeet but it could not raise itself enough and at each pause jock with his watchful little eye ever on the alert dodged his body round to avoid the chopping feet without letting go of his hold then with a snort of fury the kudu half rising gave its head a wide upward sweep and shook as a springing rod flings a fish the kudu flung jock over its head and onto the low flat top thorn tree behind the dog's summer salted slowly as he circled in the air dropped on his back in the thorn some 12 feet from the ground and came tumbling down through the branches surely the tree saved him for it seemed as if such a throw must break his back as it was he dropped with a sickening thump yet even as he fell I saw again the scrambling tearing movement as if he was trying to race back to the fight even before he reached the ground without a pause to breathe or even look he was in again and trying once more for the nose the kudu lying partly on its side with both hind legs hampered by the mass of dead wood could not rise but it swept the clear space in front with the terrible horns and for some time kept jock at bay I tried stick off to stick for a ramrod but without success at last in desperation at seeing jock once more hanging to the kudu's nose I hooked the lever onto a branch and sitting my foot against the tree wrenched until the empty cartridge flew out and I went staggering backwards in the last struggle while I was busy with the rifle the kudu had moved and it was then lying against one of the fallen trunks the first swing to get rid of jock had literally slogged him against the tree the second swing swept him under it where a bend in the trunk raised at about a foot from the ground and gaining his foothold there jock stood fast there there with his feet planted firmly and his shoulder humped against the dead tree he stood this tug of war the kudu with its head twisted back as caught at the end of a swing could put no weight to the pull yet the wrenches it gave to free itself drew the nose and up and up out like tough rubber and seemed to stretch jock's neck visibly I had to come round within a few feet of them to avoid risk of hitting jock and it seemed impossible for bone and muscle to stand the two or three terrible wrenches that I saw the shot was the end and as the splendid head dropped slowly over jock let go his hold he had not uttered a sound except the grunts that were knocked out of him end of chapter 11 Chapter 12 of jock of the bush felt 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 February 2010 jock of the bush felt by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick Chapter 12 Jim McCorkell Jim McCorkell was jock's ally and champion there was a great deal to like and something to admire in Jim but taking him all round I'm very much afraid that most people would consider him rather a bad lot the fact of the matter is he belonged to another period and other conditions he was simply a great passionate fighting savage and instead of wearing the cast off curving of the white man and peacefully driving bullet wagons along a transport road should have been decked in his savage finery of lipid skin and black ostrich feathers showing off the powerful bronze limbs and body all alive with muscle and sharing in some wild war dawns or equipped with shield and asagais leading in some murderous fight yes Jim was out of date he should have been one of the great shockers fighting guard to rise as a leader of men or be killed on the way he had but one argument and one answer to everything fight it was his nature bred and born in him it ran in his blood and grew in his bones he was a survival of a great fighting race there are still thousands of them in the crawls of Zululand and Swaziland but it was his fate to belong to one of the expelled families and to have to live and work among the white men under the Boer government of the Transvaal in a fighting nation Jim's crawl was known as a fighting one and the turbulent blood that ran in their veins could not settle down into a placid stream merely because the great white queen had laid her hand upon his people and said there shall be peace shocker the black Napoleon whose wars had cost South Africa over a million lives had died murdered by his brother Dingon full of glory lord and master wherever his impeace could reach dogs whom I fed at my crawl he gasped as they stabbed him Dingon his successor as cruel as treacherous had been crushed by the gallant little band of Boers under pot heater for his fiendish massacre of Petritif and his little band panda the third of the three famous brothers panda the peaceful had come and gone catch a wire after years of arrogant and unquestioned rule had loosened his straining impeas of the people of the great white queen the awful day of Isandra Warner where the 24th regiment died almost to a man and the fight on Flobani mountain had blooded the impeace to madness but Rourke Strift and Cambula had followed those bloody victories each within a few hours to tell another tale and at a Lundi the tides met the black and the white and the kingdom and might of the house of shock there were no more jim had fought at Isandra Warner and could tell of an umphan sent out to herd some cattle within sight of the british camp to draw the troops upgrading while impeace crit round by hill and bush and donger behind them of the fight made by the red coats as taken in detail they were attacked hand to hand with stabbing aca guys 10 and 20 to one of one man in blue a sailor who was the last to die fighting with his back to a wagon wheel against scores before him and how he fell at last stabbed in the back through the spokes of the wheel by one who had crept up behind jim had fought at Rourke Strift wild with lust of blood he had gone on with the maddest of the victory maddened lot to invade natel and eat up the little garrison on the way he could tell how 70 or 80 whack men behind a little rampart of biscuit tins and flower bags had fought through the long and terrible hours beating or five thousand of the zulu best fresh from a victory without parallel or precedent how from the burning hospital sergeant hook bc and others carried sick and wounded through the flames into the lager how a man in black with a long beard father walsh moved about with calm face speaking to some helping others carrying wounded back and cartridges forward father walsh who said don't swear a boy's fire alone harleth tenants shard and bromhead vcs too for that day's work led and fought and guided and hotened their heroic little band until the flower bags and biscuit tins stood lower than the pile of dead outside and the zulu host was beaten and natel saved that day jim had seen all that and oolondi the day of despair and he knew the power of the great white queen and the way that her people fight but peace was not for him or his crawl better any fight than no fight he rallied to usi beku in the fight for leadership when his king ketchawayo was gone and jim's crawl had moved and moved too soon they were surrounded one night and massacred and jim fought his way out wounded and alone without kith or kin cattle king or country he fled to the transfer to work for the first time in his life wagon boys as the drivers were called often acquired a certain amount of reputation on the road or in the locality where they worked but it was as a rule only a reputation as good or bad drivers in jim's case it was different he was a character and had an individual reputation which was exceptional in the kappa i had better say at once that not even his best friend would claim that that reputation was a good one he was known as the best driver the strongest nigger the hardest fighter and the worst drinker on the road his real name was makokela but in accordance with the common zulu habit it is usually abbreviated to makokel among a certain number of the white men of the sort who never can get any name right he was oddly enough known as makorkindale i called him jim as a rule makokel when relations were strained the wagon boys found it safer to use his proper name when anything had upset him it was not considered wise to take the liberty of shouting jim the answer sometimes came in the shape of a hammering many men had employed jim before he came to me and all had sucked him for fighting drinking and the unbearable worry he caused they told me this and said that he gave more trouble than his work was worth it may have been true he certainly was a living test of patience purpose and management but for something learned in that way i am glad now that jim never got the sack from me why he did not is not easy to say perhaps the circumstances under which he came to me and the hard knocks of an unkind fate pleaded for him but it was not that alone there was something in jim himself something good and fine something that shone out from time to time through his black skin and battered face as the soul of a real man it was in the first season in the bushfield that we were out spanned one night on the sand hills overlooking delago a bay among scores of other wagons dotted about in little camps all loading or waiting for loads to transport to the transfer delago was not a good place to stay in in those days liquor was cheap and bad there was very little in the way of law and order and everyone took care of himself as well as he could the kappa crawls were close about the town and the natives of the place were as rascally a lot of thieves and vagabonds as you could find anywhere the result was everlasting trouble with the wagon boys and a chronic state of war between them and the natives and the bunions or arab traders of the place the boys with pockets full of wages haggled and were cheated in the stalls and by the hawkers and in the canteens and they often ended up the night with beer drinking at the crawls or reprisals on their enemies every night there were fights and robberies the natives or Indians would rob and half kill a wagon boy then he in turn would rally his friends and raid and clear out the crawl or the stall most of the wagon boys were zulus or of zulu descent and they were always ready for a fight and would tackle any odds when their blood was up it was the third night of our stay and the usual row was on shafts and cries the beating of tomtoms and shrill ear piercing whistles came from all sides and through it all the dull hum of hundreds of human voices all gabbling together near to us there was another camp of four wagons drawn up in curse order and as we sat talking and wondering at the strange babel in the beautiful calm moonlight night one sound was ever occurring coming away out of all the rest with something in it that fixed our attention it was the sound of two voices from the next wagons one was a kathars a great deep bullfroated voice it was not raised it was monotonously steady and low but it carried far with the ring and the lingering vibration of a big gong funa nyama and goss funa nyama i want meat chief i want meat was what the kathars voice kept repeating at intervals of a minute or two with deadly monotony and persistency the white man's voice grew more impatient louder and angrier with each refusal but the boy paid no heed a few minutes later the same request would be made supplemented now and then with i'm hungry bus i can't sleep meat meat meat or porridge and bread for women and pig aninis i'm a man i want meat bus meat from the white man it was go to sleep i tell you be quiet will you shut up that row be still you drunken brutal i'll tie you up and you'll get 25 in a minute it may have lasted half an hour when one of our parties said that's bob's old driver the big zulu there'll be a row tonight he's with a foreigner chap from natal now new chums are always a ruffist on the niggers in a flash i remembered bob saunderson's story of the boy who caught the lion alive and bob's own words a real fine nigger but a terror to drink and always in trouble he fairly warm you right out a few minutes later there was a short scuffle and the boy's voice could be heard protesting in the same deep low tone they were tying him up to the wagon wheel for a flogging others were helping the white man but the boy was not resisting at the second thin whistling stroke someone said that's a shambox he's using not a next drop shambox it'll cut up bullock's hide at about the eighth there was a wrench that made the wagon rattle and the deep voice was raised in protest it made me choke it was the first time i knew of such things and the horror of it was unbearable but the man who had spoken before a good man too straight and strong and trusted by black and white said sunny you must not interfere between a man and his boys here it's hard sometimes but we'd not live a day if they didn't know who was boss i think we counted 18 and then everything seemed going to burst the white man looked about at the faces close to him and stopped he began slowly to untie the outstretched arms and blasted out some threads but no one said a word the noises died down as the night wore on until the stillness was broken only by the desultory barking of a cathedog or the crowing of some awakened rooster who had mistaken the bright moonlight for the dawn and thought that all the world had overslept itself but for me there was one other sound for which i listened into the cool of the morning with the quivering sensitiveness of a bruised nerve sometimes it was a long catchy sigh and sometimes it broke into a groan just audible like the faintest rumble of most distant surf twice in the long night there came the same request to one of the boys near him uttered in a deep clear unshaken voice and in a tone that was civil but firm and strongly moving from its quiet indifference londella manzi umganal bring water friend was all he said and each time the request was so quickly answered that i had the guilty feeling of being one in a great conspiracy of silence the hush was unreal the stillness alive with racing thoughts the darkness full of watching eyes there is we believe in the heart of every being a little germ of justice which men call conscience if that be so there must have been in the heart of the white man that night some uneasy movement the first life-throb of the thought which one who had not yet written has since sit down though i've felted you and flayed you by the living god that made you you're a better man than i gunged in the following afternoon i received an ultimatum we had just returned from the town when from a group of boys squatting round the fire there stood up one big fellow a stranger who raised his hand high above his head in zulu fashion and gave their salute in the deep bell-like voice that there was no mistaking in gauze by it he stepped forward looking me all over and announced with calm and settled conviction i have come to work for you i said nothing then he wrapped a chest like a big drum and nodded his head with a sort of defined confidence added in quaint english my name mako kella jim mako kell yes my kachom lion alive mako kella me he had heard that i wanted a driver and waited for my return and annexed me as his future boss without a moment start or hesitation i looked him over big broad shouldered loose-limbed and as straight as an asagai a neck and head like a bulls a face like a weather-beaten rock storm-scarred and furrowed rugged and ugly but steadfast massive and strong so it looked then and so it turned out for good and for evil jim was strong i nodded and said you can come once more he raised his head aloft and simply and without a trace of surprise or gratification said yes you are my chief i will work for you in his own mind it had been settled already it had never been in doubt jim when sober was a splendid worker and the most willing of servants and drunk or sober he was always respectful in an independent upstanding hearty kind of way his manner was as rough and rugged as his face and character in his most peaceful moments it was to one who did not understand him most fierce and aggressive but this was only skin deep for the childlike simplicity of the african native was in him to the fore and rude bursts of titanic laughter came readily laughter as strong and unrestrained as his bursts of passion to the other boys he was what his nature and training had made him not really a bully but masterful and overriding he gave his orders with the curtness of a drill sergeant and the rude assurance of a savage chief walking he walked his course giving way for none of them at the outspan or on the road or footpath he shouldered them aside as one walks through standing corn not aggressively but with the superb indifference of right and habit unquestioned if one loitering before him blocked his way unseeing there was no pause or step aside just sugar get out and a push that looked effortless enough but sent the offender staggering or if he had his sticks more likely a smart whack on the stern that was still more surprising and not even the compliment of a glance back from Jim as he stalked on he was like the old bull in a herd he walked his course none molested and none disputed the way opened before him when sober Jim spoke Zulu when drunk he broke into the strangest and most laughable medley of kitchen katha bad dutch and worse English the idea being in part to consider our meaner intelligences and in part to show what an accomplished linguist he was there was no difficulty in knowing when Jim would go wrong he broke out whenever he got a chance whether at a crawl where he could always quicken the reluctant hospitality of any native at a wayside canteen or in a town money was fatal he drank it all out but want of money was no security for he was known to everyone and seemed to have friends everywhere and if he had not he made them on the spot annexed and overwhelmed them from time to time you do meet people like that the world's their oyster and the gift of a masterful and infinite confidence opens it every time they walk through life taking of the best as a right and the world unquestionably submits I had many troubles with Jim but never on account of white men drunk or sober there was never trouble there it may have been rork's drift and a loondi but did it but whatever it was the question of black and white was settled in his mind forever he was respectful yet stood upright with the rough dignity of an unvanquished spirit but on the one great issue he never raised his hand or voice again his troubles all came from drink and the exasperation was at times almost unbearable so great indeed that on many occasions I heartily repented ever having taken him on warnings were useless and punishment well the shiny new skin that made patterns in lines and stars and crosses on his back for the rest of his life made answer for always upon that point the trials and worries were often great indeed the trouble began as soon as we reached a town and he had a hundred excuses for going in and a hundred more for not coming out he had someone to see boots to be mended clothes to buy or medicine to get the only illness I ever knew him have was a pain inside and the only medicine wanted grog someone owed him money a stock excuse and the idea of Jim always penniless and always in debt posing as a creditor never failed to raise a laugh and he would shake his head with the half fierce half sad disgust at the general skepticism and his failure to convince me then he had relations in every town Jim the sole survivor of his fighting crore produced bloulous babas sister lids and even mamas in profusion and they died just before he reached the place as regularly as the office boys aunt dies before derby day and with the same consequence he had to go to the funeral the first precaution was to keep him at the wagons and put the towns and canteens out of bounds and the last defense to banish him entirely until he came back sober and meanwhile said other boys to do his work paying them his wages in cash in his presence when he returned fit for duty is it as I told you is it just I would ask when this was done it is just in gorse he would answer with a calm dispassionate simplicity which appealed for forgiveness and confidence with far greater force than any repentance and it did so because it was genuine it was natural and unstudied there was never a trace of feeling to be detected when these affairs were squared off but I knew how he hated the treatment and it helped a little from time to time to keep him right the banishing of him from the wagons in order that he might go away and have it over was not a device to save myself trouble and I did it only when it was clear that he could stand the strain no longer it was simply a choice of evils and it seemed to me better to let him go clearly understanding the conditions than to drive him into breaking away with the bad results to him and the bad effects on the others of disobeying orders it was as a rule far indeed from saving me trouble for after the first part of drinking he almost invariably found his way back to the wagons the drink always produced a ravenous craving for meat and when his money was gone and he had fought his fill and cleared out all opposition he would come back to the wagons at any hour of the night perhaps even two or three times between dark and dawn to beg for meat warnings and orders had no effect whatever he was unconscious of everything except the overmastering craving for meat he would come to my wagon and begin that deadly monotonous recitation there was a kind of hopeless determination in the tone conveying complete indifference to all consequences meat he must have he was perfectly respectful every order to be quiet or go away or go to bed was received with the formal raising of the hand aloft the most respectful of salutations and the assenting in gauze but in the very next break would come the old monotonous request just as if he was saying it for the first time the persistency was awful it was maddening and there was no remedy for it was not the result of voluntary or even conscious effort on his part it was a sort of automatic process a result of his physical condition had he known it would cost him his life he could no more have resisted it than have resisted breathing when the meat was there I gave it and he would sit by the fire for hours eating incredible quantities cutting it off in slabs and devouring it when not much more than warmed but it was not always possible to satisfy him in that way meat was expensive in the towns and often we had none at all at the wagons then the night became one long torment the spells of rest might extend from a quarter of an hour to an hour then from the dead sleep of downright weariness I would be roused by the deep far-reaching voice wove itself into my dreams and waking I would find Jim standing beside me remorselessly urging the same request in Zulu in broken English and in Dutch my one I'll meet bars full-flesh gray bars and the old old hatefully familiar explanation of the difference between man's food and Pyrenin's food interspersed with grandiose declarations that he was Mako Kela Jim Mako Kela who catch him lion live sometimes he would expand this into comparisons between himself and the other boys much to their disadvantage and on these occasions he invariably worked around to his private grievances and expressed his candid opinions of Sam Sam was the boy whom I usually set to do Jim's neglected work he was a mission boy that is a Christian katha very proper in his behavior but a weakling and not much good at work Jim would enumerate all Sam's shortcomings how he got his oxen mixed up on dark nights and could not pick them out of the herd a quite unpardonable offense how he stuck in the drifts and had to be double spanned and pulled up by Jim how he once lost his way in the bush and how he upset the wagon coming down the devil's chute Jim had once brought down the Berg from Spitz corp a loaded wagon on which there was a cottage piano packed standing upright the road was an awful one it is true and few drivers could have handled so top-heavy alert without capsizing he had received a boncella for his skill but to him the feat was one without parallel in the history of wagon driving and when drunk he usually coupled it with his other great achievement of catching a lion alive his contempt for Sam's misadventure on the devil's chute was therefore great and to it was added resentment against Sam's respectability and superior education which the latter was able to rub in in safety by ostentatiously reading his bible aloud at nights as they sat round the fire Jim was a heathen and openly affirmed his conviction that a christian kaffir was an imposter a bastard and a hypocrite a thing not to be trusted under any circumstances whatever the end of his morose outburst was always the same when his detailed indictment of Sam was completed he would wind up with my kacham lion live my bling panana from discord i bring piano from spitz corp my name macaquella Jim macaquella Sam no good Sam leader bible Sam reads the bible Sam no good the intensity of conviction and the gloomy disgust put into the last reference to Sam are not to be expressed in words where warning and punishment availed nothing threats would have been worse than foolish once when he had broken bounds and lift the wagons i threatened that if he did it again i would tie him up since he was like a dog that could not be trusted and i did it he had no excuse but the old ones someone he said had brought him liquor to the wagons and he had not known what he was doing the truth was that the craving grew so with a nearer prospective drink that by hook or by crook he would find someone a passerby or a boy from other wagons to fetch some for him and after that nothing could hold him if Jim ever wavered in his loyalty to me it must have been the day i tied him up he must have been very near hating me then i had caught him as he was leaving the wagons and still sober brought him back and told him to sit under his own wagon where i would tie him up like a dog i took a piece of sail twine tied it to one wrist and fastening the other end to the wagon wheel left him a kaffir's face becomes when he wishes it quite inscrutable as expressionless as a blank wall but there are exceptions to every rule and Jim's stoicism was not equal to this occasion the look of unspeakable disgust and humiliation on his face was more than i could bear with comfort and after half an hour or so in the pillory i released him he did not say a word but heedless of the hot sun rolled himself in his blankets and sleeping or not never moved for the rest of the day end of chapter 12