Half-way between the Crocodile and Komati rivers, there are half a dozen or more small kopjes between which lie broad richly grassed depressions, too wide and flat to be called valleys. There is no running water there in winter, but there are a few big pools – long narrow irregularly shaped bits of water – with shady trees around them.
I came upon the place by accident one day, and thereafter we kept it as our own preserve, for it was full of game, and a most delightful spot.
Apart from the discovery of this preserve, the day was memorable for the reason that it was my first experience of a big mixed herd. I learned that day how difficult the work may be when several kinds of game run together.
After a dry and warm morning the sight of the big pool had prompted an off-saddle. Snowball was tethered in a patch of good grass, and Jock and I were lying in the shade. When Jock began to sniff and walk upwind, I took the rifle and followed, and a little way off we came into dry vlei ground where there were few trees and the grass stood about waist high. Some two hundred metres away where the ground rose slightly and the bush became thicker there was a fair-sized troop of impala, perhaps a hundred or more, and just behind, and mostly to one side of them, were between twenty and thirty antelope.
We saw them clearly and in time to avoid exposing ourselves. They were neither feeding nor resting, but simply standing about, and individual animals were moving unconcernedly from time to time with an air of idle loitering. I tried to pick out a good antelope ram, but the impala were in the way, and it was necessary to crawl for some distance to reach cover.
Crawling in the bushveld is hard work and very rough on both hands and knees. Frequent rests are necessary; and in one of the pauses I heard a curious sound of soft padded feet jumping behind me. Looking quickly about I caught Jock in the act of taking his observations. The grass was too high for him to see over, even when he stood up on his hind legs, and he was giving jumps of slowly increasing strength to get the height which would enable him to see what was on.
I shall never forget that first view of Jock’s ballooning observations. It became a regular practice afterwards, but it is that first view that remains a picture of him. I turned at the instant when he was at the top of his jump. His legs were all bunched up, his eyes staring eagerly and his ears had flapped out, giving him a look of comic astonishment. A sign with my hand brought him flat on the ground, looking distinctly guilty, and we moved along again, but I was shaking with silent laughter.
At the next stop I had a look back to see how he was behaving, and to my surprise, although he was following carefully close behind me, he was looking steadily away to our immediate right. I subsided gently on to my left side to see what it was that interested him, and to my delight saw a troop of twenty to twenty-five blue wildebeeste. They had evidently not seen us.
I worked myself cautiously round to face them so as to be able to pick my shot and take it kneeling, but whilst doing this I became conscious of something else looking at me. One hundred metres away, about half-way between the wildebeeste and myself were a dozen zebra, all exactly alike, all looking full face at me. With their fore-feet together, their ears cocked, and their heads quite motionless they were gazing steadily at me, alive with interest and curiosity. There was something quite ludicrous in it, and something perplexing also. When I looked at the zebra the wildebeeste seemed to get out of focus and were lost to me; when I looked at the wildebeeste the zebra blurred and faded out of sight. The difference in distance, perhaps as much as the very marked difference in the distinctive colourings, threw me out, and the effect of being watched also told. Of course I wanted to get a wildebeeste, but I was conscious of the watching zebra all the time, and, for the life of me, could not help constantly looking at them to see if they were going to start off and stampede the others.
Whilst trying to pick out the best of the wildebeeste a movement away on the left made me look that way. The impala jumped off like one animal, scaring the antelope into a scattering rout. The zebra switched round and thundered off like a stampede of horses, and the wildebeeste simply vanished. One signal in one troop had sent the whole lot off. Jock and I were left alone, still crouching, looking from side to side, staring at the slowly drifting dust, and listening to the distant dying sound of galloping feet.
It was a great disappointment, but the conviction that we had found a really good spot made some amends.
We made for the waggons along another route taking in some of the newly discovered country in the home sweep, and the promise of the morning was fulfilled. We had not been more than a few minutes on the way when a fine rietbuck ram jumped up within a dozen metres of Snowball’s nose. Old Rocky had taught me to imitate the rietbuck’s shrill whistle and this one fell to the first shot. He was a fine big fellow, and as Snowball put on airs and pretended to be nervous when it came to packing the meat, I had to blindfold him. I hoisted the buck up to a horizontal branch and lowered it on to his back.
Snowball was villainously slow and bad to lead. He knew that whilst being led neither whip nor spur could touch him, and when loaded up with meat he dragged along at a miserable walk.
We were labouring along in this fashion when we came on the wildebeeste again. A White man on foot seems to be recognised as an enemy, but if accompanied by animals he may pass unnoticed for a long while. Attention seems to be fixed on the animals rather than the man, and frank curiosity instead of alarm is quite evidently the feeling aroused.
The wildebeeste had allowed me to get close up. I picked out the big bull and took the shot kneeling, with my toe hooked in the reins to secure Snowball, taking the chance of being jerked off my aim rather than letting him go. But he behaved like an angel, and once more that day a single shot was enough.
Early next morning I set off to bring in the meat. There was very little wanton shooting with us, for when we had more fresh meat than was required, it was dried as ‘biltong’ for the days of shortage which were sure to come. By nine o’clock I was on my way eastwards along the line of the pools, not expecting much and least of all what fate had in store for Jock.
We passed the second pool, loitering a few minutes in the cool shade of the evergreens to watch the green pigeons feeding on the wild figs, and then moved briskly into more open ground. It is not wise to step too suddenly out of the dark shade into strong glare, and it may have been that act of carelessness that enabled the kudu to get off before I saw them. They cantered away in a string with the cows in the rear. It was a running shot – end on – and the last of the troop, a big cow, gave a stumble, but catching herself up again she cantered off slowly.
There was no time for a second shot and we started off in hot pursuit. Fifty metres further on where there was a clear view I saw the kudu going on faster than an easy canter, and Jock was close behind.
Whether he believed there was a broken leg to grip, or was simply overbold, it is impossible to know. Whatever the reason, he jumped for one of the hind legs, and at the same moment the kudu lashed out viciously. One foot struck him under the jaw close to the throat, ‘whipped’ his head and neck back like a bent switch, and hurled him somersaulting backwards.
Jock lay limp and motionless, with the blood oozing from mouth, nose and eyes. I recollect feeling for his heartbeat and breath, shaking him roughly and calling him by name. Then, remembering the pool near by, I left him in the shade of a tree, filled my hat with water, and poured it over him. I poured it into his mouth, shaking him again to rouse him, and several times pressing his sides – bellows fashion – in a ridiculous effort to restore breathing.
The old hat was leaky and I had to grip the rough-cut ventilations to make it hold any water at all. I was returning with a second supply when with a great big heart-jump I saw Jock heel over from his side and with his forelegs flat on the ground raise himself to a resting position, his head wagging groggily and his eyes blinking in a very dazed way.
He took no notice when I called his name, but at the touch of my hand his ears moved up and the stumpy tail scraped feebly in the dead leaves. He was stone deaf, but I did not know it then. He lapped a little of the water, sneezed the blood away and licked his chops, and then, with evident effort, stood up.
But this is the picture which it is impossible to forget. The dog was so dazed and shaken that he reeled slightly, steadying himself by spreading his legs well apart, and there followed a few seconds’ pause in which he stood thus. Then he began to walk forward with the uncertain staggery walk of a toddling child. His jaws were set close; his eyes were beady black, and he looked ‘fight’ all over. He took no notice of me, and I, never dreaming that he was after the kudu, watched the walk quicken to a laboured trot before I moved or called. But he paid no heed to the call. For the first time in his life there was rank open defiance of orders. Thinking he was maddened by the kick and not quite responsible for himself, and – more than that – admiring his pluck far too much to be angry, I ran to bring him back; but at a turn in his course he saw me coming, and this time he obeyed the call and signal instantly, and with a limp air of disappointment followed quietly back to the tree.
The reason for Jock’s persistent disobedience that day was not even suspected then. I put everything down to the kick and he seemed to me to be ‘all wrong’, but indeed there was excuse enough for him. Nevertheless it was puzzling that at times he ignored me in a positively contemptuous fashion, and at others obeyed with all his old readiness. I neither knew he was deaf, not realised that the habit of using certain signs and gestures when I spoke to him – and even of using them in place of orders when silence was imperative – had made him almost independent of the word of mouth. From that day he depended wholly upon signs, for he never heard another sound.
Jock came back with me and lay down; but he was not content. Presently he rose again and remained standing with his back to me, looking steadily in the direction taken by the kudu. It was fine to see the indomitable spirit, but I did not mean to let him try again. The kudu was as good as dead no doubt, yet a hundred kudu would not have tempted me to risk taking him out. To rest him and get him back to the camp was the only thought. I was feeling very soft about the dog then, and while I sat thus watching him and waiting for him to rest and recover, he started off again. But it was not as he had done before. This time he went with a spring and a rush, with head lowered and meaning business. In vain I called and followed. He outpaced me and left me in a few strides.
The kudu had gone along the right bank of the donga which, commencing just below the pool, extended a kilometre or more down the flat valley. Jock’s rush was magnificent, but it was puzzling, and his direction was even more so, for he made straight for the donga.
I ran back for the rifle and followed. He had already disappeared down the steep bank of the donga when, through the trees on the opposite side, I saw a kudu cow moving along at a slow cramped walk. The donga was a deep one with perpendicular sides, and overhanging crumbling banks, and I reached it as Jock, slipping and struggling, worked his way up the other wall writhing and climbing through the tree roots exposed by the floods. As he rushed out the kudu saw him and turned. There was just a chance – a second of time, a metre of space – before he got in the line of fire; and I took it. One hind leg gave way, and in the short sidelong stagger that followed Jock jumped at the kudu’s throat and they went down together.
It took me several minutes to get through the donga, and by that time the kudu was dead and Jock was standing, wide-mouthed and panting, on guard at its head. The second shot had been enough.