Mungo was not a perfect horse, but he was a great improvement on Snowball, who had gone on to the retired list soon after Jock became deaf. He had a wretched walk, and led almost as badly as his predecessor, but this did not matter so much because he could be driven like a pack donkey and relied on not to play pranks. In a gallop after game he was much faster than Snowball, having a wonderfully long stride for so low a pony.
Sometimes after a long night’s trekking I would start off after breakfast for some ‘likely’ spot, off-saddle there in a shady place, sleep during the heat of the day, and after a billy of tea start hunting towards the waggons in the afternoon.
It was in such a spot on the Komati River, a couple of hundred metres from the bank, that on one occasion I settled down to make up lost ground in the matter of sleep. With Mungo knee-haltered in good grass and Jock beside me, I lay flat on my back with my hat covering my eyes and was soon comfortably asleep.
The sleep had lasted a couple of hours when I began to dream that it was raining and woke up in the belief that a hailstorm – following the rain – was just breaking over me. I started up to find all just as it had been, and the sunlight beyond the big tree so glaring as to make the eyes ache. Through half-closed lids I saw Mungo lying down sleeping and made out Jock standing some metres away quietly watching me.
With a yawn and stretch I lay back again; sleep was over but a good lazy rest was welcome. It had been earned, and, most comforting of all, there was nothing else to be done. In the doze that followed I was surprise to feel quite distinctly something like a drop of rain strike my leg, and then another on my hat.
‘Hang it all, it is raining’, I said, sitting up again and quite wide awake this time. There was Jock still looking at me, but a minute later he looked up into the tree above me with ears cocked, head on one side, and tail held lazily on the horizontal and moving slowly from time to time.
It was his look of interested amusement.
A couple of leaves fluttered down, and then the half-eaten pip of a ‘wooden orange’ struck me in the face as I lay back again to see what was going on above. The pip gave me the line, and away up among the thick dark foliage I saw a little old face looking down at me. The quick restless eyes were watchfully on the move, the face and attitude together a vivid expression of surprise, indignation and breathless interest.
As my eyes fairly met those above me, the monkey ducked its head forward and promptly ‘made a face’ at me without uttering a sound. Then others showed up in different places, and whole figures became visible now as the monkeys stole softly along the branches to get a better look at Jock and me. There were a couple of dozen of them of all sizes.
They are the liveliest, most restless, and most inquisitive of creatures. Ludicrously nervous and excitable they are quick to chattering anger and bursts of hysterical passion, which are intensely comical, especially when they have been scared. They are creatures whose method of progress most readily betrays them by the swaying of a branch or quivering of leaves, yet they can steal about and melt away at will, like small grey ghosts.
I had often tried to trap them, but never succeeded. Jantje caught them, but he disliked showing his traps, and when told to explain he would half-sulkily show one of the common kind.
The day he caught the monkey he was well pleased, and may possibly have told the truth. Baboons and monkeys, he said, can count just like men, but they can only count two. If one man goes into a mealie field and waits for them with a gun, their sentry will see him, and he may wait for ever. If two go and one remains, it is useless, for they realise that only one has come out where two went in. But if three go in, one may remain behind to lie in wait for them, for the monkeys, seeing more than one return, will invade the mealie field as soon as the two are safely out of the way. That was only Jantje’s explanation of the well-known fact that monkeys and baboons know the difference between one and more than one.
But, as Jantje explained, their cleverness helped him to catch them. He went alone and came away alone, leaving his trap behind, knowing that they were watching his every movement, but knowing also that their intense curiosity would draw them to it the moment it seemed safe. The trap he used was an old calabash or gourd with a round hole in it 2 centimetres in diameter. A few pumpkin seeds and mealies and a hard crust of bread, just small enough to get into the calabash, formed the bait.
After fastening the gourd by a cord to a small stump, he left it lying on its side on the ground where he had been sitting. A few crumbs and seeds were dropped near it and the rest placed in the gourd, with one or two showing in the mouth. Then he walked off on the side where he would be longest in view, and when well out of sight sped round in a circuit to a previously selected spot where he could get close up again and watch.
The foremost monkey was already on the ground when he got back and others were hanging from low branches or clinging to the stems, ready to drop or retreat.
After a pause they began the careful roundabout approach and the squatting and waiting, making pretences of not being particularly interested, while their quick eyes watched everything; then he deft picking up of one thing – instantly dropped again, as one picks up a roasted chestnut and drops it in the same movement, in case it should be hot; and finally the greedy scramble and chatter.
Jantje waited until the tugs at the gourd became serious, and then, knowing that the smaller things had been taken out or shaken out and eaten and that some enterprising monkey had put its arm into the hole and grabbed the crust, he ran out.
A monkey rarely lets go any food it has grabbed, and when, as in this case, the hand is jammed in a narrow neck, the act requires a deliberate effort. So Jantje caught his monkey, and flinging his ragged coat over the captive sat down to make it safe.
By pushing the monkey’s arm deeper into the gourd the crust became released and the hand freed. He then gradually shifted the monkey about until he got the head into the shoulders of the loose old coat, and thence into the sleeve. He had the creature as helpless as a mummy with the head appearing at the cuff opening and the body jammed in the sleeve like a bulging overstuffed sausage. The monkey struggled, screamed, chattered, made faces, and cried like a child; but Jantje gripping it between his knees was unmoved.
He next took the cord from the calabash and tied one end securely round the monkey’s neck and tied the other end to a stout bush stick about two or three metres long. Then he slipped monkey, cord and stick back through the sleeve and had his captive safe. The cord prevented it from getting away, and the stick prevented it from getting too close and biting him.
The grimacing little imps invariably tempt one to tease or chase them, just to see their antics and methods. When I rose, openly watching them and stepping about for a better view, they abandoned the silent method and bounded freely from branch to branch for fresh cover, always ducking behind something if I pointed the gun or a stick at them, and getting into paroxysms of rage and leaning over to slang and cheek me whenever it seemed safe.
Jock was full of excitement, thoroughly warmed up and anxious to be at them, running about from place to place to watch them, tacking and turning and jumping for better views. Now and then he ran to the trunk and scraped at it. Whenever he did this there was a moment’s silence. The idea of playing a trick on them struck me and I caught Jock up and put him in the fork of a big main branch about 2 metres from the ground. The effect was magical. The whole of the top of the tree seemed to whip and rustle at once, and in two seconds there was not a monkey left.
Then a wave in the top of a small tree some distance off betrayed them and we gave chase – a useless romping schoolboy chase. They were in the small trees away from the river and it was easy to see and follow them. To add to the fun and excitement I threw stones at the branches behind them. Their excitement and alarm then became hysterical, and as we darted about to head them off they were several times obliged to scamper a few metres along the ground to avoid me and gain other trees. It was then that Jock enjoyed himself most. He ran at them and made flying leaps and snaps as they sprang up into the trees and out of reach. They finally got away into the big trees once more, to Jock’s disappointment but greatly to my relief, for I was quite pumped from the romp and laughter.
The river at this point was broken into several sluices by islands formed of piles of rocks on which there were a few stunted trees and dense growths of tall reeds, and here and there little spits and fringes of white sand were visible. There was plenty of small game in that part, but half an hour’s jogging along the bank having failed to propose anything, I struck away from the river taking a line through the bush towards camp, and eventually came across a small herd of blue wildebeeste. Mungo’s pricked ears and raised head warned me, but the grass being high it was not easy to see enough of them from the ground to place an effective shot, and before a chance offered they moved off slowly. I walked after them, leading Mungo and trying to get a fair opening on slightly higher ground.
Presently half a dozen blackish things appeared above the tall grass. They were the heads of the wildebeeste – all turned one way, and all looking at us with ears widespread. Only the upper halves of the heads were visible through the thinner tops of the grass, and an ordinary standing shot was not possible. I had to go to a tree for support in order to tiptoe for the shot, and whilst in the act of raising my rifle the heads disappeared, but I took a chance and fired just below where the last one had shown up.
The wildebeeste were out of sight, hidden by grass two metres high, but a branch of the tree beside me served as a horizontal bar and hoisting myself chin high I was able to see them again. In front of us there was a dry vlei quite free of bush, and the wildebeeste had gone away to the right and were skirting the vlei, apparently meaning to get round to the opposite side, avoiding the direct cut across the vlei for reasons of their own. It occurred to me that there must be a deep donga or perhaps a mud hole in front which they were avoiding; but that it might be possible for me to get across, in time to have another shot at them the next time they stopped to look back. So I ran straight on.
One does not reason things out like that in practice. The conclusion comes instantly, as if by instinct, and no time is lost. To drop from the branch, pick up the rifle, and start running were all part of one movement. Stooping slightly to prevent my bobbing hat from showing up in the grass tops, and holding the rifle obliquely before me as a sort of snowplough to clear the grass from my eyes, I made as good pace as the ground would allow.
No doubt the rifle held in front of me made it difficult to notice anything on the ground, but the concentrated stare across the vlei in the direction of the galloping wildebeeste was quite as much the cause of what followed.
Going fast and stooping low, with all my weight thrown forward, I ran right into a wildebeeste cow. My shot had wounded her through the kidneys, completely paralysing the hindquarters, and she had instantly dropped out of sight in the grass. The only warning I got was a furious snort, and the black-looking monster with great blazing bloodshot eyes rose up on its front legs as I ran into it.
To charge into a wounded wildebeeste ready to go for you, just when your whole attention is concentrated upon others two hundred metres beyond, is nearly as unpleasant as it is unexpected. It becomes a question of what will happen to you, rather than of what you will do. That at any rate was my experience. The rifle, if it had hindered me, also helped. Held out at arm’s length it struck the wildebeeste across the forehead and the collision saved my chest from the horns. There was an angry toss of the big head and the rifle was twirled out of my hand, as one might flip a match away.
I do not know exactly what happened. The impression is of a breathless second’s whirl and scramble, and then finding myself standing untouched five metres away.
The rifle lay within the circle of the wildebeeste’s big hooked horns, and the squatting animal, making a pivot of its hindquarters, slewed round and round, making savage lunges at Jock – who had intervened to help me – and great heaves at me each time I tried to get the rifle.
I tried to hook the gun out with a stick but the wildebeeste swung round and faced me at once, snapping the sticks and twirling them out of my hands with surprising ease and quickness. I then tried another game, and by making feint attacks from the other side at last got the animal gradually worked away from my gun. The next attempt at raking was successful.
When the excitement was over and there was a chance of taking stock of the position, I found that Jock had a pretty good ‘gravel rash’ on one hip and a nasty cut down one leg. He had caught the wildebeeste by the nose the instant I ran into it, and it had ‘wiped the floor’ with him and flung him aside.
I found my bandolier with a broken buckle lying on the grass. One shirt sleeve was ripped open and the back of my right hand cut across. My hands and knees were well grated and there were lumps and bruises about the legs for which there was no satisfactory explanation. I must have scrambled out like an unwilling participant in a dog fight.
It was a long job skinning, cutting up, and packing the wildebeeste, and when we reached the outspan the waggons had already started and we had a long tramp before us to catch them.
I drove Mungo before me, keeping him at an easy jog. We had been going for possibly an hour and it was quite dark, except for the stars and the young moon low down on our right. The road was soft and Mungo’s jogging paces sounded like floppy pats. There was no other sound at all, not even a distant rumble from the waggons to cheer us. Mungo must have been sick of it and one might have thought him jogging in his sleep but for the occasional pricking of his ears – a trick that always makes me wonder how much more horses see in the dark than we do. I walked like a machine, with my rifle on my shoulder, glad to be rid of the broken bandolier, then transferred to Mungo; and Jock trotted at my heels.
This tired monotonous progress was undisturbed until Mungo stopped. His ears pricked, his head went up, and he looked hard at a big low bush on our left. I gave him a tap with the switch, and without hesitation he dashed off to the right, made a half-circle through the veld, came into the road fifty metres ahead, and galloped away leaving a rising column of dust behind him.
Then Jock growled low and moved a few steps forward and slightly to the right, also sheering off from that bush. I felt that he was bristling all over, but there was neither time nor light to watch him. I stepped slowly sideways after him, gripping the rifle and looking hard at the bush.
Our line was much the same as Mungo’s and would take us some seven or eight paces off the road – more than that was not possible owing to the barrier of thorns on that side. When we got abreast of the bush two large spots of pale light appeared in the middle of it, waist high from the ground.
It is impossible to forget the tense creepy feeling caused by the dead stillness, the soft light, and the pale expressionless glow of those eyes – the haunting mystery of eyes and nothing more.
It is not usual to see eyes in the night, but this was a ‘nervy’ occasion, and there is no other that comes back with all the vividness and reality of the experience itself, as this one does.
As we moved on and passed the reflecting angle of the moon, the light of the eyes went out as suddenly and silently as it had appeared. There was nothing then to show me where danger lay, but Jock knew, and I kept a watch on him. He jogged beside me, lagging slightly as if to cover our retreat, always looking back. A couple of times he stopped entirely and stood in the road, facing straight back and growling, and I followed suit. He knew that he was in command.
There was nothing more. Gradually Jock’s subdued purring growl died down and the glances back became fewer. I found Mungo a long way on, brought to a standstill by the slipping of his load; and we caught up to the waggons at the next outspan.
