The Witch Doctor and other Rhodesian Studies Part 34

He made them mechanically.

Black, who remained by the fire, put on his spectacles and wrote up his diary. Then he too put down his blankets, close to where Fernie lay.

He didn't go to sleep at once. In spite of his apology, Fernie's words had left a sting. This had been his worst outbreak so far. He had never used the contemptuous epithet "ex-ink-slinger" before. Because of its truth it hurt.

So Black lay on his back watching the sparks rise from the fire at his feet. He was indeed seeing the world, but he began to doubt whether he had chosen exactly the best parts of it or the most pleasant way of seeing them.

No unkind thought of Fernie ever entered his mind. I think I can safely say this, for his very full diary contains no hint of such. On the contrary, a strong thread of deep admiration and affection for his friend can be traced without a break through every page of that strange book.

Presently there was a slight movement behind the pile of meat. Black turned slowly over on his side and looked. To his great alarm he saw a large lion smelling the meat. He put out his hand and touched Fernie, who woke at once, sat up, and looked. However uncertain the sailor's temper might be, his nerve was still good. He s.n.a.t.c.hed up his gun. As he did so, the lion made a short backward jump and glared at the men, growling. Fernie put the gun to his shoulder and pressed the trigger.

There was no report! He had forgotten the broken spring. Why he did not fire the left barrel remains a mystery. Instead, he gripped the gun about the trigger guard with his left hand, pressed the stock firmly to his shoulder, and aimed a sharp blow at the hammer with his spanner. He missed the hammer, but hit his thumb.

"Gentle, jumping Johnson!" he hissed through his clenched teeth. "The devil take the blighted thing and chew it!"

With that he flung the spanner at the beast, and disregarding the blood spurting from his crushed thumb, fired the left barrel after the lion, which had bounded away into the darkness.

It was many days before that thumb healed.

I don't suppose that at the beginning of their partnership Fernie knew much or any more about firearms than Black did. It is probable that both were equally ignorant. This does not appear from the diary, but then allowance must be made for Black's deep admiration of Fernie and all he did.

Of course, Fernie had travelled much and, thanks to his training at sea, took more quickly to strange conditions and new things than Black. By dint of perseverance and the expenditure of much ammunition, he managed to keep the camp supplied with meat, but in those days game was thick upon the ground.

It is probable that if the job of keeping the larder full had been handed over to the driver of the donkey waggon, all would have fared better.

It is on record that under Fernie's tuition Black once tried his hand at shooting at a target. I say once advisedly, for he tried but once.

The rifle he used was, of course, Fernie's old Martini. The target was the bleached skull of an ox that they found by the roadside.

After showing his pupil how to hold the rifle, how to aim, and the use of sights, Fernie gave Black a handful of cartridges and walked off to set up the target.

Black was bubbling over with suppressed excitement. His heart beat rapidly. His mouth felt unaccountably dry. He almost made up his mind to borrow the rifle that very afternoon and go out and look for a buck. He pictured himself soon taking turn and turn about with Fernie in keeping the pot going.

With an effort he ceased building castles, pulled himself together, and mentally repeated Fernie's instruction on the rifle. He determined to acquit himself creditably.

Fernie had meanwhile set up the target about fifty yards away, and had moved to what he considered a safe distance. He now shouted to Black to have a shot, adding: "Don't be afraid of the darned thing, it won't hurt you. Besides, it doesn't matter if you do miss the first shot or two."

Black clenched his teeth, put the rifle to his shoulder, and aimed at the skull.

The rifle wobbled.

He was most anxious to make a good beginning.

The rifle went on wobbling.

He held his breath.

The rifle wobbled more.

He held his breath until his lungs nearly burst. Then, I'm afraid, he shut his eyes and pulled the trigger in desperation.

Goodness knows where the bullet went to. Fernie declared that it pa.s.sed just over his head.

But Black? He threw the rifle on the ground and rubbed his collar-bone and chin. His spectacles fell off. From where Fernie stood it looked as if he might be swearing.

"What's the matter? Have another shot," shouted Fernie, as he walked towards his friend.

"Nothing much the matter, but I don't want another shot. It hurts too much, and you said it wouldn't."

"Hurt? Nonsense! Slip in another cartridge."

"I won't."

Fernie picked up the rifle and began to wipe off the dust with his hand.

"Hulloa! What on earth have you done to the thing?"

"Done to it?"

"Why yes; this bulge in the barrel."

"Did I do that?"

"Well, it wasn't like that before."

"Wasn't it?"

"Why no. And where's my plug?"

"Your what?"

"The plug of wood I had in the barrel. Good Heavens! You don't mean to say that you fired the thing off with the plug in it?"

"I don't know anything about plugs. You gave me the rifle to fire and I fired it. My neck hurts, and I'm going back to the waggon."

There must have been good metal in that old rifle, or it would surely have exploded. About an inch from the end of the barrel was a bulge as large as a hen's egg.

One adventure is fully recorded in the diary.

Fernie shot a reedbuck. Rain had fallen during the afternoon, so, following the example of the waggon boys, the white men had taken the roof from a deserted native hut, propped it up with a pole, and had made their beds under it.

Fernie put the reedbuck meat on the raised eaves of the hut roof to be out of the reach of stray night marauders, such as hyenas, jackals, or native dogs.

After his experience with the lion, he had discarded the damaged shot-gun in favour of the more serviceable rifle as a means of protection by night.

In due course the two men went to bed and both fell asleep.

Their awakening was as sudden as it was unusual. Something fell heavily on Fernie's chest. Still half-asleep, he hit out instinctively. His fist came in violent contact with hairy ribs. A beast grunted and scrambled away.

Meanwhile Black had received a leg of the reedbuck on his head and was pushing the clammy thing from him.