The Witch Doctor and other Rhodesian Studies Part 12

"You will take rations for ninety days, the small buck waggon, and the black span of oxen."

For the third time Sergeant Johnson said, "Yes, sir."

Now, this man with the bright red beard had been a soldier elsewhere before he became a policeman in the middle of Africa. His old training had not encouraged questions, so he never asked any now. When, therefore, the Commandant of Police glanced up from the map, the Sergeant saluted, turned about, and left the office.

He wasted no time. He took Corporal Merton, Privates Hay and Hare, the small waggon, ninety days' rations, a span of fourteen black oxen, the Zulu Jacob to drive, and the Kaffir boy "Nine-thirty" to lead.

Just before sundown he pulled out of camp. It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to say that the leader of a waggon is the native who walks in front of the oxen, but it is necessary to explain that a leader of oxen in Africa answers to any name flung at him. This particular one was called "Nine-thirty" because, without any apparent effort, he stood and walked with his feet splayed at what should have been an impossible angle to his legs. If his right big toe pointed east, his left one pointed west, whilst he himself faced north or south, as the case might be.

For seven days the party travelled in a northeasterly direction, Sergeant Johnson spending most of the time on his back on the waggon, Corporal Merton tramping immediately behind, whilst Privates Hay and Hare followed at any distance ranging between a hundred yards and half a mile.

The party was not a cheery one; it might have travelled for yet another day, or even more, had not the Sergeant dropped his looking gla.s.s off the tail end of the waggon. He was devoted to his big red beard. While lying on the waggon he spent his time fondling and tr.i.m.m.i.n.g this beard, smearing vaseline on it and admiring it in his little lead-framed looking gla.s.s.

When, therefore, he dropped his gla.s.s, he said: "d.a.m.n," and then, more loudly, "This is Likonga; outspan, Jacob!"

The driver shouted "Ah, now!" to the oxen, and the outfit came to a halt.

As a camping place, the spot so casually chosen was not a bad one. There was wood and there was water, good grazing for the cattle, and obviously some game about. Moreover, there were some granite boulders on the left, set round in the form of a rude circle. Under the Sergeant's direction all were soon roughly housed. The cattle had been made secure at night by a skilful reinforcement of the circle of boulders, here a thorn bush and there a few poles. Patrol tents, protected by a straggling fence, satisfied the Sergeant and his men. Jacob spent the day in the lee of his waggon and the night under it. "Nine-thirty" slept on the other side of the cattle kraal, under the propped-up roof of an abandoned native hut; during the day he herded the cattle. The making of this very primitive out-station occupied less than a couple of days, and then the question, "What the devil shall we do now?" fell upon the party like a blight.

But, as is so often the case, the devil decided.

All had turned in for the night. The Sergeant had taken a last look at his beard. Corporal Merton had read something of Kipling's. Private Hay, after a long-winded argument with Private Hare, in which neither seemed to gain advantage, had told his adversary to go to h.e.l.l. Private Hare had found satisfaction in saying, "Ditto, brother." Jacob had retired under his waggon, and, like most natives, fell asleep immediately, with his head well covered by his blanket.

The leader with the silly name, alone of all the party, remained awake in his solitude on the other side of the cattle kraal. His evening meal of maize porridge was bubbling in his small cooking pot, perched on a handful of embers. He was playing a minute native "piano," a trumpery, tinkling thing, made of half a gourd, a strip of hard wood, with a few tongues of metal affixed to it.

The tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink; tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink, sounded very plaintive and lonely in Africa's wide expanse. The boy was singing, too--if his wail could be called singing.

The crocodile, Floating near the bank, Sleeps in the river.

Tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink.

The fish, Floating on the water, Sleeps in the river.

Tinkle, tinkle, tink, tink.

The hippopotamus, Floating in mid-stream, Sleeps in the river.

Tinkle, tinkle,...

The music stopped. Africa was deadly still, save for the croaking of a frog.

"Nine-thirty" sat motionless, looking straight before him, out beyond his little fire. Immediately opposite stood a large, black-maned lion.

The pair faced each other, a yard or so apart. The only movement was the lion's tail, which switched from side to side. The huge beast looked steadily at "Nine-thirty," who, full of fear, stared back at the lion.

Where life and death are concerned, things happen very suddenly. The lion took one step forward and seized "Nine-thirty" by the knee. The boy reached for his a.s.segai and plunged it into the lion's ribs.

The Sergeant heard the cry and a roar of pain in his sleep, and woke up to fumble with his beard. Corporal Merton, from an interrupted dream, cried out: "Halt! Who goes there?" Private Hay, if awake, said nothing, whilst his companion in arms muttered: "What's up?" Jacob answered from under his blanket: "It's a lion, master, and he has killed my leader."

At any rate, it was certain something serious had happened. A lion, uncomfortably close, was making such a din that the leaves of the trees near by seemed to flutter, and "Nine-thirty" was moaning on the other side of the cattle kraal.

"Stand to arms!" commanded the Sergeant.

All tumbled out of their blankets, rifle in hand, shirttails flapping in the night wind. They were not cowards, neither were they fools. The four listened to the sound of a lion growling and retreating as he growled.

The moaning came from one place, so it was evident that Nine-thirty was for the moment safe. Then, hastily lighting a lantern, the policemen picked their way round the cattle kraal to Nine-thirty's little fire.

The Sergeant knew something of first aid. He lifted the mauled native carefully and carried him back to the waggon. The boy's knee was in a bad state--the joint was crushed. A "tot" of brandy, a thorough wash of the wound, a bandage, a blanket or two, and a bed of gra.s.s near the camp fire made Nine-thirty as comfortable as possible. After making up the fire, all turned in again.

At daylight the Sergeant mustered his men, and thus addressed them:

"We will now go and blot out this accursed lion. Load, and remember no one fires until I give the word. Put on your boots, don't bother about your bags."

The four lined up.

"March!"

They hadn't far to go--barely a couple of hundred yards. The lion raised his head and growled. Nine-thirty's a.s.segai, broken off short, still protruded from the beast's ribs.

"Fire!" commanded the Sergeant. Four shots rang out as one, and the lion's head sank upon his paws. The men reloaded, and approached with caution, but the marauder was dead.

The Sergeant instructed Jacob to skin the beast, and the four returned to camp for breakfast and to think out the problem which had arisen out of the killing of this lion.

All things being equal in sport, and rank apart, and as man to man, to whom belonged the skin? Someone had missed, because there were only three holes in the skin. Someone had made a rotten bad shot, because there was a bullet hole in the lion's rump. Someone had killed the beast outright, because a bullet had pa.s.sed through the lion's brain. Someone had done for him, because another shot had taken him behind the shoulder.

All claimed the head shot.

Well, Jacob was out of it anyway. So, too, was poor Nine-thirty. Neither had fired a shot.

When I arrived I found Nine-thirty well on the way to recovery, but the policemen still "man to man." A deputation presented me with the skull and asked me to decide about the skin. I declared Nine-thirty the owner by all the rules of hunting; he had drawn first blood, and had stopped the lion.

I suggested, however, that as Nine-thirty did not want the skin, the four who fired at the lion should have a five shilling sweepstake for it, Nine-thirty to have the pound and the winner the skin.

Sergeant Johnson drew the prize.

But Jacob, being a Zulu, collected the lion's fat, melted it into tins, bottles, and small gourds, and sold it for many pounds to his friends when he went home a year later. All Zulus know that lion's fat smeared on the head, face, or beard makes a man brave in battle.

THE REVEREND MR. b.u.mPUS.

Some missionaries I like very much, they are good fellows; others I am not so sure about; others, again, I admit I cordially dislike. I place the Rev. Mr. b.u.mpus in the third category. I met him once going down the road from the Zambesi as I was going up. He, lucky beggar, was travelling to rail-head in his ox-waggon, going on leave. I was trekking north in my waggon, having just exhausted my home leave. All his fun was to come; mine was over for a period. I felt, when I met him, like a boy who, having eaten his own plum cake, must now watch another boy devour his.

The Rev. b.u.mpus had a wife. Poor soul, she was cooped up with him in the waggon, and had been for three weeks. They had come about two hundred miles from their mission station in that time. Think of it, cooped up for three solid weeks with the Rev. Mr. b.u.mpus. How I pitied her!

What a change there was in the little woman. Three years earlier, I remember, she had gone north with b.u.mpus, newly married, and with a look in her eyes of a brave soldier of the faith, rosy cheeked, well favoured and plump. And now! What a battle she must have had! And I'm sure she didn't find a good ally in the man of her choice. She was thin and drawn, had a sad, discouraged eye, and looked more than twice her age.

Almost the first question she asked was: "Oh, have you any tobacco? Any you can spare, I mean?" I produced my pouch, and said I had plenty in my waggon coming on behind.

The Rev. b.u.mpus slipped off the waggon, took a handful, crammed his pipe, and put the remainder in his alpaca coat pocket. Then he lit up, took a puff or two, and said--nothing! It was she who thanked me, adding:

"Fred has been impossible for the last five days; he's had no tobacco. I didn't pack enough. Perhaps his temper will be better now." And this poor little lady cast a beseeching look at her lord and master.

As for the reverend gentleman, he climbed back into the waggon, sat down with a grunt of contentment, and puffed vigorously at his pipe.

"I'm so glad we've met you," continued the woman. "We've been followed for days by some lions. Last night they took my riding donkey."