Jock of the Bushveld Page 10

  When you think you are tumbling on to a crocodile there is only one thing you want to do – get out as soon as possible. How long it took to reach the top of the rock again, goodness only knows! It seemed like a lifetime; but the fact is I was out of those reeds and up that rock in time to see the duiker as it broke out of the reeds, raced up the bank and disappeared into the bush with Jock tearing after it as hard as ever he could go.

  One call stopped him, and he came back to me looking very crestfallen and guilty, no doubt thinking that he had behaved badly and disgraced himself. But he was not to blame at all; he had known all along that the duiker was there – having had no distracting fancies about crocodiles – and when he saw it dash off and his master instantly jump in after it, he must have thought that the hunt had at last begun and that he was expected to help.

  After all that row and excitement there was not much use in trying for anything more in the reeds – and indeed I had had quite enough of them for one afternoon; so we wandered along the upper banks in the hope of finding something where there were no crocodiles, and it was not long before we were interested in something else and able to forget all about the duiker.

  Before we had been walking many minutes, Jock raised his head and ears and then lowered himself into a half crouching attitude and made a little run forward. I looked promptly in the direction he was pointing and about two hundred yards away saw a stembuck standing in the shade of a mimosa bush feeding briskly on the buffalo grass. It was so small and in such bad light that the shot was too difficult for me at that distance, and I crawled along behind bushes, ant heaps and trees until we were close enough for anything. The ground was soft and sandy, and we could get along easily enough without making any noise; but all the time, whilst thinking how lucky it was to be on ground so soft for the hands and knees, and so easy to move on without being heard, something else was happening. With eyes fixed on the buck I did not notice that, in crawling along on all fours, the muzzle of the rifle dipped regularly into the sand, picking up a little in the barrel each time. There was not enough to burst the rifle, but the effect was surprising. Following on a painfully careful aim, there was a deafening report that made my head reel and buzz; the kick of the rifle on the shoulder and cheek left me blue for days; and when my eyes were clear enough to see anything the stembuck had disappeared.

  I was too disgusted to move, and sat in the sand rubbing my shoulder and thanking my stars that the rifle had not burst. There was plenty to think about, to be sure, and no hurry to do anything else, for the noise of the shot must have startled every living thing for a mile around.

  It is not always easy to tell the direction from which a report comes when you are near a river or in broken country or patchy bush; and it is not an uncommon thing to find a shot which has frightened one animal away from you has startled another and driven it towards you; and that is what happened in this case. As I sat in the shade of the thorns with the loaded rifle across my knees there was the faint sound of a buck cantering along in the sand; I looked up; and only about twenty yards from me a duiker came to a stop, half fronting me. There it stood looking back over its shoulder, and listening intently, evidently thinking that the danger lay behind it. It was hardly possible to miss that; and as the duiker rolled over, I dropped my rifle and ran to make sure of it.

  Of course, it was dead against the rules to leave the rifle behind; but it was simply a case of excitement again: when the buck rolled over everything else was forgotten! I knew the rule perfectly well: reload at once and never part with your gun. It was one of Rocky’s lessons, and only a few weeks before this, when out for an afternoon’s shooting with an old hunter, the lesson had been repeated. The old man shot a rietbuck ram and, as it had been facing us and dropped without a kick, we both thought that it was shot through the brain. There was no mark on the head, however, and although we examined it carefully, we failed to find the bullet mark or a trace of blood; so we put our rifles down to settle the question by skinning the buck. After sawing at the neck for half a minute, however, the old man found his knife too blunt to make an opening, and we both hunted about for a stone to sharpen it on, and while we were fossicking about in the grass there was a noise behind and, looking sharply round, we saw the buck scramble to its feet and scamper off before we had time to move. The bullet must have touched one of its horns and stunned it. My companion was too old a hunter to get excited and, while I ran for the rifles and wanted to chase the buck on foot, he stood quite still, gently rubbing the knife on the stone he had picked up. Looking at me under bushy eyebrows and smiling philosophically, he said: ‘That’s something for you to remember, Boy. It’s my belief if you lived for ever there’d always be something to learn at this game.’

  Unfortunately I did not remember that when it would have been useful. As I ran forward the duiker stumbled, struggled and rolled over and over, then got up and made a dash, only to dive head foremost into the sand and somersault over; but in a second it was up again and racing off, again to trip and plunge forward on to its chest, with its nose outstretched, sliding along the soft ground. The bullet had struck it in the shoulder and the broken leg was tripping it and bringing it down; but, in far less time than it takes to tell it, the little fellow found out what was wrong, and scrambling once more to its feet was off on three legs at a pace that left me far behind. Jock, remembering the mistake in the reeds, kept his place behind me, and I in the excitement of the moment neither saw nor thought of him until the duiker, gaining at every jump, looked like vanishing for ever. Then I remembered and, with a frantic wave of my hand, shouted, ‘After him, Jock.’

  He was gone before my hand was down and faster than I had ever seen him move, leaving me ploughing through the heavy sand far behind. Past the big bush I saw them again, and there the duiker did as wounded game so often do: taking advantage of cover, it changed direction and turned away for some dense thorns. But that suited Jock exactly; he took the short cut across to head it off and was close up in a few more strides. He caught up to it, raced up beside it and made a jump at its throat; but the duiker darted away in a fresh direction, leaving him yards behind. Again he was after it and tried the other side; but the buck was too quick and again he missed and overshot the mark in his jump. He was in such deadly earnest he seemed to turn in the air to get back again and once more was close up – so close that the flying heels of the buck seemed to pass each side of his ears; then he made his spring from behind, catching the duiker high up on one hindleg and the two rolled over together, kicking and struggling in a cloud of dust. Time after time the duiker got on its feet trying to get at him with its horns or to break away again; but Jock, although swung off his feet and rolled on, did not let go his grip. In grim silence he hung on while the duiker plunged and, when it fell, tugged and worried as if to shake the life out of it.

  What with the hot sun, the heavy sand and the pace at which we had gone, I was so pumped that I finished the last hundred yards at a walk and had plenty of time to see what was going on; but even when I got up to them the struggle was so fierce and the movements so quick that for some time it was not possible to get hold of the duiker to finish it off. At last came one particularly bad fall, when the buck rolled over on its back, and then Jock let go his grip and made a dash for its throat; but again the duiker was too quick for him; with one twist it was up and round facing him on its one knee, and dug, thrust and swept back with its black spiky horns so vigorously that it was impossible to get at its neck. As Jock rushed in, the head ducked and the horns flashed round so swiftly that it seemed as if nothing could save him from being stabbed through and through, but his quickness and cleverness were a revelation to me. If he could not catch the duiker, it could not catch him: they were in a way too quick for each other and they were a long way too quick for me.

  Time after time I tried to get in close enough to grab one of the buck’s hindlegs, but it was not to be caught. While Jock was at it fast and furious in front, I tried to creep up quiet
ly behind – but it was no use: the duiker kept facing Jock with horns down, and whenever I moved it swung round and kept me in front also. Finally I tried a run straight in; and then it made another dash for liberty. On three legs, however, it had no chance, and in another minute Jock had it again and down they came together, rolling over and over once more. The duiker struggled hard, but he hung on, and each time it got its feet to the ground to rise he would tug sideways and roll it over again, until I got up to them, and catching the buck by the head held it down with my knee on its neck and my Bushman’s Friend in hand to finish it.

  There was, however, still another lesson for us both to learn that day; neither of us knew what a buck can do with its hindfeet when it is down. The duiker was flat on its side; Jock, thinking the fight was over, had let it go; and, before I could move the supple body doubled up and the feet whizzed viciously at me right over its head. The little pointed cloven feet are as hard and sharp as horns and will tear the flesh like claws. By good luck the kick only grazed my arm, but although the touch was the lightest it cut the skin and little beads of blood shot up, marking the line like the scratch of a thorn. Missing my arm, the hoof struck full on the handle of the Bushman’s Friend and sent it flying yards out of reach. And it was not merely one kick: faster than the eye could follow them, the little feet whizzed and the legs seemed to buzz round like the spokes of a wheel. Holding the horns at arm’s length in order to dodge the kicks, I tried to pull the duiker towards the knife; but it was too much for me, and with a sudden twist and a wrench it freed itself and was off again.

  All the time Jock was moving round and round, panting and licking his chops, stepping in and stepping back, giving anxious little whimpers and longing to be at it again, but not daring to join in without permission. When the duiker broke away, however, he waited for nothing and was on to it in one spring – again from behind; and this time he let go as it fell and, jumping free of it, had it by the throat before it could rise. I ran to them again, but the picking up of the knife had delayed me and I was not in time to save Jock the same lesson that the duiker had just taught me.

  Down on its side, with Jock’s jaws locked in its throat once more, the duiker doubled up and used its feet. The first kick went over his head and scraped harmlessly along his back; but the second caught him at the point of the shoulder, and the razor-like toe ripped his side right to the hip. Then the dog showed his pluck and cleverness. His side was cut open as if it had been slashed by a knife, but he never flinched or loosened his grip for a second; he seemed to go at it more furiously than ever, but more cleverly and warily. He swung his body round clear of the whizzing feet, watching them with his little beady eyes fixed sideways and gleaming whites showing in the corners; he tugged away incessantly and vigorously, keeping the buck’s neck stretched out and pulling it round in a circle backwards so that it could not possibly double its body up enough to kick him again; and before I could catch the feet to help him, the kicks grew weaker; the buck slackened out, and Jock had won.

  The sun was hot, the sand was deep and the rifle was hard to find; it was a long way back to the waggons and the duiker made a heavy load; but the end of that first chase seemed so good that nothing else mattered. The only thing I did mind was the open cut on Jock’s side; but he minded nothing: his tail was going like a telegraph needle; he was panting with his mouth open from ear to ear, and his red tongue hanging out and making great slapping licks at his chops from time to time; he was not still for a second, but kept walking in and stepping back in a circle round the duiker, and looking up at me and then down at it, as if he was not at all sure that there might not be some fresh game on and was consulting me as to whether it would not be a good thing to have another go in and make it all safe.

  He was just as happy as a dog could be, and perhaps he was proud of the wound that left a straight line from his shoulder to his hip and showed up like a cord under the golden brindle as long as he lived – a memento of his first real hunt.

  In the Heart of the Bush

  When the hen pecked Jock on the nose, she gave him a useful lesson in the art of finding out what you want to know without getting into trouble. As he got older, he also learned that there are only certain things which concerned him and which it was necessary for him to know. A young dog begins by thinking that he can do everything, go everywhere and know everything; and a hunting dog has to learn to mind his own business, as well as to understand it. Some dogs turn sulky or timid or stupid when they are checked, but an intelligent dog with a stout heart will learn little by little to leave other things alone, and grow steadily keener on his own work. There was no mistake about Jock’s keenness. When I took down the rifle from the waggon he did not go off into ecstasies of barking, as most sporting dogs will do, but would give a quick look up and with an eager little run towards me give a whimper of joy, make two or three bounds as if wanting to stretch his muscles and loosen his joints, then shake himself vigorously as though he had just come out of the water and, with a soft suppressed ‘Woo-woo-woo’ full of contentment, drop silently into his place at my heels and give his whole attention to his work.

  He was the best of companions and through the years that we hunted together I never tired of watching him. There was always something to learn, something to admire, something to be grateful for and very often something to laugh at – in the way in which we laugh only at those whom we are fond of. It was the struggle between Jock’s intense keenness and his sense of duty that most often raised the laugh. He knew that his place was behind me; but probably he also knew that nine times out of ten he scented or saw the game long before I knew there was anything near and naturally wanted to be in front or at least abreast of me to show me whatever there was to be seen.

  He noticed, just as surely and as quickly as any human being could, any change in my manner: nothing escaped him, for his eyes and ears were on the move the whole time. It was impossible for me to look for more than a few seconds in any one direction, or to stop or even to turn my head to listen, without being caught by him. His bright brown eyes were everlastingly on the watch and on the move: from me to the bush, from the bush back to me. When we were after game, and he could scent or see it, he would keep a foot or two to the side of me so as to have a clear view; and when he knew by my manner that I thought there was game near, he kept so close up that he would often bump against my heels as I walked, or run right into my legs if I stopped suddenly. Often when stalking buck very quietly and cautiously, thinking only of what was in front, I would get quite a start by feeling something bump up against me behind. At these times it was impossible to say anything without risk of scaring the game and I got into the habit of making signs with my hand which he understood quite as well.

  Sometimes, after having crawled up, I would be in the act of aiming when he would press up against me. Nothing puts one off so much as a touch, or the expectation of being jogged, when in the act of firing, and I used to get angry with him then, but dared not breathe a word; I would lower my head slowly, turn round and give him a look. He knew quite well what it meant. Down would go his ears instantly and he would back away from me a couple of steps, drop his stump of a tail and wag it in a feeble deprecating way and open his mouth into a sort of foolish laugh. That was his apology! ‘I beg your pardon: it was an accident! I won’t do it again.’

  It was quite impossible to be angry with him, he was so keen and he meant so well; and when he saw me laughing softly at him, he would come up again close to me, cock his tail a few inches higher and wag it a bit faster.

  There is a deal of expression in a dog’s tail: it will generally tell you what his feelings are. My friend maintained that that was how he knew his old dog was enjoying the joke against the cockerel; and that is certainly how I knew what Jock was thinking about once when lost in the veld; and it showed me the way back.

  It is easy enough to lose oneself in the Bushveld. The Berg stands up some thousands of feet inland on the west, looking as if it had be
en put there to hold up the Highveld; and between the foothills and the sea lies the Bushveld, stretching for hundreds of miles north and south. From the height and distance of the Berg it looks as flat as the floor, but in many parts it is very much cut up by deep rough dongas, sharp rises and depressions and numbers of small koppies. Still, it has a way of looking flat/because the hills are small and very much alike; and because hill and hollow are covered and hidden mile after mile by small trees of a wonderful sameness, just near enough together to prevent you from seeing more than a few hundred yards at a time. Most people see no differences in sheep: many believe that all Chinamen are exactly alike; and so it is with the Bushveld: you have to know it first.

  So far I had never lost my way out hunting. The experiences of other men and the warnings from the old hands had made me very careful. We were always hearing of men being lost through leaving the road and following up the game while they were excited, without noticing which way they went and how long they had been going. There were no beaten tracks and very few landmarks, so that even experienced hunters went astray sometimes for a few hours, or a day or two, when the mists or heavy rains came on and nothing could be seen beyond fifty or a hundred yards.

  Nearly everyone who goes hunting in the Bushveld gets lost some time or other – generally in the beginning before he has learned to notice things. Some have been lost for many days until they blundered on to a track by accident or were found by a search party; others have been lost and, finding no water or food, have died; others have been killed by lions and only a boot or a coat – or, as it happened in one case that I know of, a ring found inside a lion – told what had occurred; others have been lost and nothing more ever heard of them. There is no feeling quite like that of being lost – helplessness, terror and despair! The horror of it is so great that every beginner has it before him; everyone has heard of it, thought of it and dreamed of it and everyone feels it holding him to the beaten track, as the fear of drowning keeps those who cannot swim to shallow water. That is just in the beginning. Presently, when little excursions, each bolder than the previous, have ended without accident, the fear grows less and confidence develops. Then it is, as a rule, that the accident comes and the lesson is learned, if you are lucky enough to pull through.