Chapter III (2)

We spent half a day looking and looking and looking. We were drenched by the spray, dried by the sun, deafened by the roar of the waters, and struck dumb by the beauty of it all.

At about one o'clock we felt hungry, and went in search of our pack-horses. We had off-saddled outside the thicket and turned our beasts loose. We found our saddles easily enough, and the horses, too, for that matter; the grass was so luscious and plentiful that no horse would desire to stray far after several weeks in the dry Kalahari. We had lunch and a little rest, and then set out again to do more exploring. We hadn't gone far before we came upon the track of a waggon. Robinson Crusoe, when he found the footprint of the man Friday, could not have been more amazed than we.

So far as we knew, no other expedition had come to the Falls ahead of us. Who, then, was the intruder?

We followed the track, and presently, in a small clearing, we saw a waggon. Whoever he was, this traveller deserved full credit for what he had done. We had ridden to the Falls, and were proud of it, but here was a man who had got a waggon through. Stout fellow. And there, seated on a skin near his oxen, was the man. He had a matted beard, and didn't look too clean. Under one arm he hugged a huge calabash, from which he was eating honey with a stick. The honey was old and granulated. There were many flies in it, too, evidence that the neck of the calabash had been left uncovered at times. He didn't move when he saw us, but, holding out his stick, said: "Have some."

We told him we had just fed, but thanked him all the same.

"Sit down," said he, "sit on this skin," but he made no room for us. "I shot it yesterday at the Falls. This is the cub; the lioness went off."

"How long have you been here?"

"A couple of days."

"How did you get through?"

"Cut my way."

"Lose any cattle in the thirst country?"

"Didn't come that way; took a bee line from Bulawayo."

This was a good performance indeed. All the old hands had said it couldn't be done.

"What did you come for?"

"What did you?"

The man who asked the question first was travelling north to take over the administration of a tract of country as big as France. He explained his business.

"Oh, so you're the magistrate, are you?"

"Yes, that's about it. And you?"

"I'm a captain in the Salvation Army down south, but I've brought a fellow up to prospect for mineral on the other side of the Zambesi. He crossed yesterday, and moved up country on foot this morning."

I looked at this queer fellow with interest. His cap of calling lay on the ground beside him. Throughout the conversation he went on eating the honey. The Zambesi in those days was about the last place I should have expected to find a Salvation Army man. Looking round I caught sight of the familiar red jersey with the yellow letters. It was hanging on a bush, evidently drying. The captain had followed my gaze, and volunteered: "Had a bit of a washing day, first on this trip." From the look of him I concluded that his own turn was yet to come.

"Well, tell us about the lion cub."

I think he told the truth. I can't, of course, vouch for it, but he was sitting on the skin of a newly-killed cub. Before we left the Falls the vultures told us where to find the lioness. But this is his story:

"I was walking along in the rain-forest with my rifle, looking for a pig or a palla or anything else eatable. I hadn't gone far when I nearly fell over this cub. He snarled at me, so I shot him. While he lay kicking on his back up comes his mother, so I reloaded my old Martini and gave her one for herself. Not being a first-class shot, I didn't do for her right off. She looked so angry and seemed to be coming on that I stepped back a pace or two, but keeping my eye on her. I tried to reload, but the empty cartridge case jammed. I broke off a stick from a handy bush and plugged it down the muzzle. I must have pushed too hard, for the stick broke off short."

The captain stopped, got up, and fetched his rifle from the wagon. The stick was still in the barrel, evidently stuck fast in the cartridge, which, in its turn, was firmly fixed in the breech. We had a look at the rifle and then at the captain. He simply said: "Can either of you gentlemen fix this up for me?" We both said we could, and both asked: "But what about the lioness?"

"Oh, the lioness. Why, there she was and there I was. She with a very ugly look, and growling, and I with my rifle put out of action. I felt it was time to do something, so I backed out of the bush singing a hymn in a loud voice."

THE SPORT OF KINGS.

The days have gone by when the Paramount Chiefs of the Barotse embarked annually upon a large-scale Lechwe drive. I believe the last big hunt took place in 1899. I, at any rate, have heard of no such happening since.

It is just as well that these drives have come to an end. The African natives' idea of sport does not altogether tally with that of the white man; no sportsman likes to see animals slaughtered _en masse_.

In those days the Lechwe antelope were strictly preserved for the pleasure of the Paramount Chief and his entourage. No native was permitted to disturb them in their natural haunts--the wide, open plains--and no man could kill one under pain of heavy penalty. The only exception to this rule was when a few head strayed into the vicinity of Lealni, the principal native village of the Barotse valley. Then the people were allowed to hunt them with dogs, but not to shoot them.

The time chosen for these drives was after the rains had ceased to fall, but while the Zambesi had still more water to carry off than its banks could contain. The overflow was such that for a space the Barotse Valley became a vast lake, varying in depth from a few inches to a dozen feet.

The same may be said with equal truth of the Luena river, an important tributary which, flowing from the East, made its junction with the Zambesi not far from Lealni. It was in the Luena basin that the drives took place.

For two months before the time of hunting preparations for the drive began. Those long, heavy casting assegais, peculiar, I believe, to that part of Africa, were cleaned and sharpened. Narrow hunting canoes were collected, repaired and caulked. Four foot long pikes, sharpened at one end--which was hardened by burning--with a stout blade fixed in the other, were prepared in great numbers by the Batotela, a slave tribe cunning in the manufacture of iron. The blades of these pikes were short and flat and had the rounded point of an oyster-knife.

I was invited by the Chief to be present at the drive in 1899, and I went.

It took two days to reach the hunting ground. We travelled in shallow-draught, dug-out canoes. The first night we slept in elaborate grass shelters prepared for us beforehand.

Next morning we resumed our journey at daylight. The Chief went first in a very small and narrow canoe. He was accompanied by one man only. They stood up in the canoe and punted with long, red-wood poles. All European clothes had been discarded by the natives. The Chief wore a woollen nightcap and a long, white shirt. Round his waist, but under his shirt, he had a highly-coloured, fringed tablecloth. His legs and feet were bare; so, too, were his arms to the elbow.

My canoe started immediately after that of the Chief, but I did not retain that position long. It was more comfortable and, therefore, much heavier and slower. It carried a crew of seven.

I suppose there must have been several thousand canoe loads of men. Two of the Chief's wives accompanied the party. All etiquette was abandoned. It became a race to follow the Chief, and although the waterway was several miles wide, collisions were frequent. Everyone was good-humoured, including one of the Chief's wives, whose canoe was capsized in the scurry. She was rescued amid much laughter and joking, in which she joined.

_En route_ we passed many canoes loaded down to the gunwale with pikes. To these everyone gave a wide berth for fear of swamping them, for the pikes were necessary to the sport.

In the afternoon of the second day we arrived at the spot selected, or, to be more precise, at a large camping ground within easy reach of it.

Here we found even more elaborate grass huts ready for us. The Chief gave me a hut quite near to his own, a compliment which I did not appreciate at its intended value, because his band played and women sang throughout the night and robbed me of all sleep.

The moment we arrived the Chief started off in his fast canoe to inspect the ground over which the Lechwe were to be driven next day. On his return he told me that the place had been well chosen and that the country was alive with Lechwe. He also said he had found a high ant-hill for me to stand upon and watch the drive.

At daylight we set out again and reached my ant-hill in about an hour. The Chief took me to the top of it, pointed out the direction from which the antelope would come, and explained the plans for the day's sport.

Looking through my field-glasses I saw two faint lines which, beginning more than a mile away in the open plain, converged, forming a funnel. The narrow end of the funnel terminated within a quarter of a mile from my ant-heap and in a line with it.

The faint lines were really thin strips of dry palmleaf tape, which shone white in the bright sunlight. Every few yards a bight was taken round a bunch of tall, growing grass, which lent support to it and gave the impression that a one-strand fence or a barrier of some sort had been erected.

The Chief referred to the two thin lines as walls, and assured me that the antelope, if properly driven, would not break through them.

He then drew my attention to the apparent opening at the narrow end of the funnel, and asked me if I saw anything to prevent the Lechwe from escaping in that direction.

I said I could see no bar. He replied that the Lechwe couldn't either, so, when pressed, would dash for the opening.

"It is then that the sport will begin," he added.

At this I looked more carefully and saw innumerable pikes had been driven into the ground with their iron points sloping forward towards the wire end of the funnel. The grass had been carefully rearranged.

This, then, was the general plan: to drive the Lechwe into the funnel, down it, and on to the pikes at the narrow end.

In reply to my questions, he said that many thousands of beaters, drawn from the slave tribes, had been wading through the swamps for two days collecting small herds of antelope and driving them slowly forward towards the mouth of the funnel.

He drew a diagram with his stick on the side of the ant-heap to show how the beaters were disposed. He had adopted the well-known African method of envelopment--the crescent, with the horns well forward. The men who formed the horns had already reached the extremities of the funnel and were passing slowly down outside the line. The antelope, he told me, were contained in the arc of men coming forward.

As yet I could see no antelope, nor could I see the men who formed the arc; they were still too far away.

In the meantime, all the men who had come in small hunting canoes had taken their places outside, but close to, the two thin lines or walls. The moment they reached their stations they sat down and were lost to view in the long grass. The Chief explained that these men remained hidden until the Lechwe had passed them, when their business was to stand up and frighten the antelope forward with shouts and gesticulations. Should any Lechwe attempt to break through the sides of the funnel, the canoemen had to drive them back or assegai them.

I now knew what to expect.

The Chief presently left me, as he, too, had to take up his station. He begged me to keep myself hidden, as a premature exposure might easily spoil the entire drive.

I lay flat on the ant-heap, looking through a small gap which I made in the tall grass which crowned it. I could see admirably, but could not be seen.

It was a long time before I could discern any movement, even at the mouth of the funnel. I could hear the cries of the beaters as they approached, faintly at first, then a hum, then a roar.

Presently I saw a single reed-buck ram pacing very slowly towards the concealed assegais. From time to time he stopped, stamped, sniffed and whistled, scenting danger. What became of him, I don't know. I lost sight of him.

Looking through my glasses towards the entrance of the funnel again, I saw a sight which made me gasp. Although the most distant beaters had not yet appeared, a huge herd of Lechwe seemed literally to block the funnel and were trotting steadily down it. Half way they stopped. A fine ram turned and walked towards the left-hand wall. A man stood up and the antelope turned in the direction of the opposite wall; he went at a trot again and the immense herd followed him. When within twenty yards of the palmleaf tape, some dozen men stood up. All the antelope but the ram stopped. He, fine fellow that he was, made a bold bid for liberty. He dashed on, gathered himself together, and cleared the fence. One of the men in a canoe made a movement. It was too far off to see anything clearly, but as the Lechwe landed in a heap, I realised that he had been transfixed in mid-air by one of those heavy hunting assegais.

The herd was not leaderless for long. Another ram forged ahead and trotted straight towards the narrow end of the funnel. Immediately every man sat down. It was clear that these hunters had been very well drilled.

After moving rapidly for a hundred yards the Lechwe came to a halt. They were not as yet frightened, but highly suspicious.

First, they turned at a walk towards the right-hand wall: a man stood up. They moved across to the left: the first man sat down and his opposite number stood up. The antelope broke into a trot. After heading to the right again for a little way, some hundreds broke back, and this, I think, is where the mistake was made, for, instead of leaving them to the beaters, who were approaching, driving many more herds of Lechwe before them, man after man stood up, shouting and waving their arms wildly.

This had the effect of breaking up the whole of the antelope formation. They dashed here and there, thoroughly frightened; some broke through the wall, some cleared it, some dashed right back, and others came on towards the trap.

I watched these last. There were several hundred of them. They came along at a very fast trot, the rams with their heads forward, noses up, and horns lying along their backs. A ram led. He struck one of the hidden pikes full with his chest and gave a mighty leap into the air, bleeding from a terrible wound in the brisket. He landed on the point of another pike and bounded up from it, his entrails dragging behind him. Much weakened, he leaped and leaped again until, completely disembowelled, he fell and lay still.

There was no escape, the pikes were set so closely together: not a foot apart. They reached right across the gap in the funnel and to the depth of forty or fifty yards. I do not think a single one of this part of the large herd escaped. For the space of two minutes they were dashing past me and on to the hidden pikes. Every one was disembowelled before it fell dead--rams, ewes, and young alike. It was a disgusting sight.

The natives were in a frenzy of excitement. No doubt their one idea was to drive the Lechwe to the trap and in that they succeeded; but they also drove a considerable part of the herd back upon the beaters, who were pressing other herds before them. The confusion was complete. Lechwe were dashing in all directions. Men were shouting and hurling their assegais. A deafening roar rose from the beaters, now close in. From time to time a score or so Lechwe dashed upon the pikes and added to the slaughter.

I saw a Setutunga approach the pikes leisurely out of the confusion. He lifted his feet high at every step, a habit bred of life in the papyrus swamps. A native appeared from nowhere in particular and running him down killed him with a club.

The drive was over.

That evening when I met the Chief he was still furious. Someone had blundered and most of the Lechwe had escaped. Moreover, a man in a small canoe, hurling his heavy assegai at a Lechwe, had missed the beast and killed his brother. The Chief's own cook and several of his companions had been mauled out in the plain by a leopard. No, the drive had not been a success by any means.

I wondered what the bag would have been if all had gone well with the Chief's plans. I had personally counted three hundred mutilated carcasses, but, feeling sick, had given up the tally and returned to camp.

THE LIONS OF MAKULULUMI.

How hot it was! September, 1897. I had not shot my first lion then, and many, many months were to pass before my luck came. Dame Fortune doesn't often condescend to glance my way. She smiled broadly once when, with three tickets, I won first, second, and third prize in a sweep on the Grand National; but then I have never drawn a prize in a sweep since.

However, to return to September, 1897. Yes, by Jingo, it was hot. Not a breath of air; not a leaf on any tree. The rains were almost due, but not a shower had fallen. The only shade was in the shadow of the wagon.

But it was not the blazing sun alone with which we had to contend. There thrives in the Kalahari Desert a pestiferous little winged insect called the Mopani bee, named after the hardwood tree in which it sets its hive. It would seem that this creature must have moisture, moisture of any kind--it isn't at all particular. And to think that I used to eat the stuff they call Mopani honey until, one day, I saw a bunch of them lapping up the moisture from a perspiring native runner. Ugh!

These bees will congregate in dozens at the corners of your eyes, try to burrow into them and then collect the tears which the discomfort of their burrowing produces. They will crowd at the corners of your mouth; when you open it to blow the little plagues away, they rush in. Thank Heaven, the Mopani bee doesn't sting.

We were struggling up to the Zambesi from Bulawayo. Our waggons were overloaded, for the Kalahari had taken heavy toll of our cattle and our spans were therefore many oxen short.

We had reached and covered the first ten miles of the thirty-five which separate Makululumi from Kasibi. All those who knew the old Hunter's road will remember that stretch. The first ten miles are not bad going, but the next seven are the heaviest and loosest sand that oxen were ever asked to drag a waggon through.

Between Makululumi and Kasibi there is no water, so the Major who commanded our little party thought it wise to send the oxen back from the ten-mile point to have the best part of a couple of days' rest at Makululumi before calling upon them to tackle the next stage of the journey.

During the afternoon of the second day, by following my chief's example, I got the better of those bees. It is true I was slowly suffocating, but that was better than being tormented. I was lying on my back under the waggon, with my head covered with a blanket, perspiring immoderately. At least three more hours of this before the cattle returned and we resumed our journey.

Presently I heard a conversation going on in Dutch between the Major and one of his boys. I looked out and saw one of the drivers who should have been with the cattle.

"What are you doing here?" the Major asked.

"Lions, baas."

"Where? How many? When?"

"Last night at Makululumi. Yes, many of them, baas."

"Any cattle dead?"

"Four, baas."

"Tell me about it."

The driver told his story. It appeared that the night before, as soon as it was dark, the boys had collected the cattle together and had driven them up to the camp fires. The oxen stood about for a little while and then settled down. Seeing this, the boys had turned in. When the moon set, the cattle moved off to the water holes again to drink and graze.

Presently there was a great commotion at the water, oxen bellowing and stampeding. The boys got up and ran down with lights and a rifle. There they found three of the oxen lying dead within a hundred yards of each other, and a fourth, also dead, some little distance on. Each ox had his neck broken, but was otherwise unmarked. One of the boys thought he heard a lion in the grass, so fired his rifle off.

Collecting the cattle again, they drove them up to the camp fires and kept a strict watch for the remainder of the night.

At daylight they went back to the scene of the killing, and found that the lions had returned to the carcasses and made a heavy meal off two of them, the third was half eaten, the fourth untouched.

This was indeed a disaster; we simply couldn't spare these four oxen.

"Where are the cattle now?"

"At the water holes with the other boys."

"What did you tell the other boys to do?"

"Let the cattle graze until sundown, then water them and bring them along."

"Good. Now let's get busy."

During this conversation I had got out from under the waggon and was now listening.

"What are you going to do?" I asked.

"Go back and blot out some of those lions."

"May I come, too?"

"Have you ever shot a lion?"

"No."

"Have you ever seen one?"

"Not outside the Zoo, but I should like to."

"Well, you may come on one condition."

"What's that?"

"Don't shoot unless and until I tell you to."

I promised. Here was adventure indeed!

The Major took an axe and a length of cord. He handed me a billy-can, two cups and some coffee. He selected a double .303 from his battery. I took the only rifle I possessed, namely, a single Martini Metford.

Without more ado we set off to cover the ten miles back to Makululumi. There was no path, of course, merely the overgrown waggon track through the forest. The traffic on that road was insufficient to cope with the suckers which had sprung up round the stump of every tree felled in the cutting of this so-called road. The men who originally made the road had not troubled to stump it. The going was tiresome, and, lightly loaded as I was, I soon found the little I had to carry an increasing burden to me.

About a mile from our destination we met the rest of our natives driving the cattle along. We stopped for a few minutes to question them. They had kept the vultures off the fourth ox, which was still intact, but the birds had eaten up the other three almost entirely. A bushman had arrived shortly before they came away, attracted by the circling vultures. They made him stand guard over the yet untouched ox in case we came back for the lion.

All this was satisfactory, so, telling the boys to inspan the waggons when they reached them, and make as long a trek as they could through the heavy sand, we pushed on.

We had no difficulty in finding the spot where the oxen had been killed. Hundreds of vultures, gorged with meat, sat on the upper branches of a clump of trees. A little further on an unusually tall bushman stood up as we approached.

The Major examined the lie of the land with an experienced eye, and quickly made his plans.

The Makululumi water holes are really a series of pools strung out along the otherwise dry bed of a small river. Of three of the slaughtered oxen little remained but the bones and hide; they had been killed in the bed of the river. The fourth lay on the far bank, where the river made a very sharp hairpin bend and narrowed to not more than a dozen feet.

The Major selected a point as near as possible to the bank and immediately opposite the dead ox. He didn't waste much time in explanation, but, taking the axe, told me to follow him. The sun was just beginning to set. He hurried to the nearest clump of small trees and felled them rapidly, trimming off the branches and cutting them into poles about six feet long.

My part of the work was to carry the poles to the hairpin bend. Twenty in all were cut, varying in thickness from two to five inches in diameter. Then we built our moral support, for it was no more. I held the tops of three poles while the Major tied them together with the piece of cord which he had brought from the waggon. Then, standing them on end, he spread them to form a tripod. This he reinforced with additional poles, which he made fast with strips of bark. The finished shelter looked like a skeleton bell-tent. It had neither strength nor stability, for we had no time to sink the ends of the poles in the sun-baked ground.

By that time the sun had set, and the bushman, who had been watching us silently all this time, said something in that strange clicking language of his and hurried off, presumably to a place of safety.

The Major thought a meal would do us good, and, going back along the river until we came to a dry place where the banks were high, he lit a fire. At the sight of a blaze I realised that I was cold. We did not think of our coats in the heat of the midday sun. However, there was nothing for it but to see the matter through.

I felt quite comfortable after some bully-beef and bread, washed down with two or three cups of hot coffee.

At eight o'clock we returned to our fort as quietly as possible, surprising on the way a hyena in the act of dragging off the hide of one of the oxen. We had to crawl very carefully into our shelter for fear of disturbing a pole and bringing the whole thing down about our ears.

Once inside, I had ample time for reflection. We sat within three yards of the bank of the river, which was but four yards wide at this point. A yard from the opposite bank lay the dead ox; beyond the ox, for about a hundred yards, the grass had been burnt short; beyond that again was long grass and thick bush.

The moon, which was three-quarter full, would not set for another five hours; everything was almost as clear as daylight between the river and the thick bush; we could see up and down the river bed. The ox, much distended by a day's exposure to the blazing African sun, was too near to be pleasant, and, being on a level with us, blotted out much of the landscape on the other side of the river. We could distinctly hear the hyenas, jackals, and the lesser scavengers quarrelling over the scraps of bone, hide, and offal left by the lions and the vultures.

We sat facing the ox. The Major thought that if the lions came at all it would be from the thick bush ahead, for immediately behind us was open country for a considerable distance.

Strangely enough, I felt extremely sleepy. We held a short whispered consultation, and it was agreed that I should sleep while I could. The Major promised to wake me if things became interesting. He wasn't sleepy.

I lay down with my rifle by my side, my head touching one pole and my feet another. I slept almost immediately, in spite of the cold and the hardness of the ground. Not only was the air at night cold by contrast with the hot day, but the evaporation from the water holes lowered the temperature.

The sound of my companion's rifle woke me. Sitting up, I saw a lion in the air, descending upon us. The Major fired again, and the lion fell into the water-course, literally at our feet. I could see his rump and tail quite plainly. His rage was terrific as he tried to reach us. His bellowing must have been heard for miles around, and doubtless many a bushman and many a beast quaked at the sound of it.

I remember shouting at the top of my voice: "I can see his rump. Shall I shoot?"

The reply, I must admit, disconcerted me: "Rump's the wrong end, but if he shows his head shoot it off."

I watched the struggling beast so intently that I did not see that a second lion had approached. He made his presence known to me by a roar which sounded loud and clear above the thunder of his wounded fellow. He was standing broadside on to us, just behind the ox. The Major fired and the lion sprang forward. The noise was deafening. A chorus of two wounded lions is something not often heard.

I now watched the second lion. He dashed off towards the bush, changed his mind and charged us. He came in great leaps, roaring as he came, then thought better of it, for he stopped sharply, throwing up clouds of dust as he did so, and pulled up almost on the ox. All I could see was his head, and that very indistinctly because of the dust which now enveloped both the lion and the dead ox.

Again a steadying warning: "Don't shoot until you can see more of him than that."

As the Major spoke the lion veered off and trotted back towards the bush, grunting savagely as he went.

"Here he comes again!" And so he did, bounding along as before and bellowing so that I wondered whether our home of poles could stand the vibration of sound.

Again the lion hesitated, again he sheered off, this time entering the bush. We heard him crashing through it until there was silence once more, for the first lion had now ceased to show any signs of life.

I must admit to feeling decidedly uncomfortable then. My heart thumped like a sledge hammer. I longed to get out and stretch my legs. A great deal of action had been compressed into a short space of time, probably not more than ten minutes. To the Major's suggestion that we should have a look at the dead fellow I responded with alacrity--too much alacrity--my foot catching in one of the poles, the whole structure came crashing down upon his head.

After extricating himself he climbed down into the river bed and stood looking at the lion. I followed him.

I don't know why I did it--some sudden impulse for which I cannot account--but I stepped forward and raising the lion's head in my two hands, looked into his eyes.

I certainly heard the Major talking, and I distinctly heard what he said.

"What the devil are you doing, you damned young fool? Drop that head and come away. How do you know he's dead?"

I took no notice. I couldn't. I was terrified, hypnotised. I could do nothing but stare and stare.

No doubt the lion was dead, but the light in his eyes was not. It was dying, not dead. It was a blazing, vivid, blinding light--as it were, the light of an untamed spirit reluctantly taking leave of a mighty body.

When at length I let that rugged head fall, the light had faded; I stood shivering, feeling little and mean, as one who had looked upon something not meant for him to see.

WHITE MEN AND BLACK.

WHITE MEN AT PLAY.

The white man is superior to the black and must show it in his manners and deportment.

This is an unwritten law, observed in the early days of any of our African settlements.

For the man who breaks this law the punishment is swift and severe: he is shunned by his caste and colour.

It is said, but it is nevertheless generally true, that as the settlement prospers, so does this excellent law fall into abeyance. Men without manners arrive and are soon in the majority.

But in the beginnng, the white man watches himself very carefully. He knows all eyes are upon him. He must not permit himself to unbend. In the observance of the law, a man is very self-conscious and is apt to seem stiff and unsympathetic.

In the very, very early days of Kazungula the natives of the place watched some white men relax, and the spectacle afforded them as much pleasurable interest as the knowledge that they had been seen caused pain to the white men.

For many a day the natives of Kazungula commanded a ready audience anywhere in the country, for had not they, and they alone, seen white men at play?

It came about in this way.

A solitary white man stood on the north bank of the Zambesi river, looking across to the other side.

It was Knight, the Native Commissioner, who had for the last fortnight expected daily the arrival of some waggons which carried his year's provisions and other stores. He had little of anything left. No sugar, very little tea, and a single bottle of gin represented his cellar.

He longed each night for the usual "sundowner," but had determined not to open his one remaining bottle, in case of accident. Just what he meant by accident he could not have said. In answer to a direct question he might have replied: "Oh, anything might happen, one never knows."

To-night, for some reason unknown to himself, he was more impatient of the sluggard waggons than usual. Would the darned things never come?

The sun was setting and small flights of duck were going down stream to the marshy feeding grounds. A goose passed in the same direction.

The reed birds, in large noisy flocks, were choosing their roosting place for the night. It seemed that they could not make up their minds. No sooner had they settled in one patch of reeds than they started up with much twittering in search of a better place. They had done this at least a dozen times, and their indecision irritated the man.

A plump kingfisher, sitting on a log almost at his feet, dived from time to time into the shallow water and returned to his perch again. Knight noticed that the busy bird usually returned with a tiny silver fish in his bill, and mentally commended him for his good fishing.

Well, the waggons hadn't come, and wouldn't come to-night. The sun had set and it was growing dark. A chill wind sprang up and the reed birds had become silent. The watcher turned slowly and walked in the direction of his camp.

He had not gone far when he stopped, for he had caught sight of a queer-looking man hobbling towards him along the path which ran by the river side. In the dying light he saw that the stranger was a white man accompanied by a single native, that he wore a long blonde beard, that he was unusually tall, that his trousers were cut off above the knee, that he had no boots, that he was very lame and had his feet bandaged in rags. In short, he saw a fellow white man in distress.

He forgot his own little troubles and hastened towards the newcomer.

He gave the usual greeting of "Hulloa."

"Hulloa," was the reply.

"Going a bit short, I see."

"Yes, about done in."

"Let me give you a hand to my camp."

"Thanks; I heard I should find you here."

"Come far to-day?"

"Yes, from the Falls."

"A good forty-five miles, by Jove!"

"Yes, quite that, I should think."

The two men relapsed into silence; the taller one because he was very exhausted and felt it acutely now that he had reached his journey's end; the shorter, because he realised his companion's condition and did not wish to bother him with questions which could very well wait.

On reaching the camp Knight shouted to his body servant: "Hot bath and be quick!" Turning to his companion, he said: "You'd like a hot bath, wouldn't you?"

"There is only one thing on earth I should like better, but no doubt you can give me both."

"Oh, I know; you want a drink, of course. I'll get you one in a second. Sit down."

"Curse those waggons," muttered Knight, as he hurried off to get his last bottle of gin. His second impulse was to thank goodness that the bottle was a "baby," that is, one of the largest size.

Returning with his precious "baby," he saw his guest's face clearly for the first time. The natives had lit the camp fire, and the light of it fell upon the strong features of the stranger.

"Good Lord! It's Lindsay!"

"Yes, why not? Didn't you recognise me at once?"

"No. Will you have water or a sparklet with your gin?" asked Knight, pouring out about half a glass of the spirit--a quantity known to travellers as a "three-finger tot."

"I'll chase it," said Lindsay, who, having gulped down the gin, held out his glass for some water.

"Bath ready, Morena," a black boy called from an adjoining hut.

"Have another?" said his host.

"No, thanks. I can face your hot bath now."

The tired man entered the hut, followed by the native who had reached the camp with him.

Knight called his cook and took stock. What was there for dinner? Soup. Oh, yes, there was always soup, made by boiling down bones and meat, throwing in a few dried vegetables and thickening with peaflour.

Fish? Good man; so he had caught some that very evening? Then there was that cold bush-pig's head. Yes, they would like that. What else was there? Remembering the leathery thing his cook called an omelette, he discouraged a suggestion of eggs.

To be sure, there were chickens. They had just gone to roost, and were now quiet after a noisy bed-going. Yes, two very young ones spatchcocked, and with plenty of black pepper and a little salt. And there was one tinned plum pudding in the store; they would have that.

This plum pudding had been suggested daily by the cook, and always rejected because it might be wanted. It was wanted now. Yes, they would have the plum pudding.

And then there was the gin. Well, they wouldn't do so badly after all. Soup, fish, chickens, the cold pig's head and a hot plum pudding; what more could two men want?

By this time Lindsay had splashed to his heart's content, and the generous qualities of the gin were having their effect. He felt a new man.

"Are you out of your bath?"

"Yes; can you give me some clean kit?"

"Certainly, but will it fit you?"

"Oh, near enough. It will be clean, which is the main thing."

Much chaff ensued as Lindsay, who stood six feet three in his socks, got into some of his host's clothes, for Knight was the shorter of the two by some six inches, but fortunately broad in the shoulders.

"Can't do you in boots."

"Oh, that's all right. Give me some limbo[2] to tie up my feet."

[2] Slang term for calico.

During the bandaging the camp dogs began to bark loudly, and both men paused to listen.

"By the way," said Lindsay, "that must be Hobday. I walked on ahead of him; he is so deuced slow. Do you know Hobday? He's 'pills' to our expedition. Not a bad fellow, as doctors go."

"No, I don't know him and you haven't told me what the expedition is or anything about anything yet."

"Well, we've walked across country from Zanzibar, or rather Mombasa, looking for minerals."

"Found anything?"

"No."

"Well, I'd better go and look out for--what did you say his name was?"

"Hobday, quite a little fellow."

Knight went out of the hut and, as he passed the kitchen, ordered another bath and told the cook that as a second white man was arriving he must kill another chicken.

Almost immediately Hobday arrived. He was a short, precise little man, inclined to tubbiness.

"How do you do? My name is Mr. Hobday. I am the medical man attached to an important expedition headed by Mr. J.G. Lindsay, who may not be unknown to you."

To this long-winded greeting Knight replied: "Well, come along and have a drink and a hot bath and a change, and by that time dinner will be ready. Lindsay's here."

"I do not often indulge in alcoholic beverages and never in the daytime, but after a very tiring day----"

"Say when. Will you have a sparklet with it or do you prefer water?"

"Er, thanks, a sparklet if you please. I am of opinion that the sparklet is a very useful invention. What would not that great traveller and hunter, Gordon Cumming, have given for what amounts to a portable soda-water factory? Ah, thank you, that is ample. And, as I always tell my patients, if they must drink alcohol, they will find in gin its least harmful form."

"What a queer little devil," thought Knight.

"I am greatly obliged to you for this stimulant, and now I shall be further and deeply indebted to you if I may have a bath. I always say that a hot bath, when one is tired, revives one more quickly and effectually than anything else."

Knight found it difficult to reply suitably to this, and was relieved when the bath was announced and the doctor disappeared into the hut.

Lindsay looked extremely funny in Knight's clothes. The old shooting jacket was a little short in the skirt and sleeves. The trousers reached half way down the tall man's shins, but he felt clean and comfortable and appearances didn't matter.

"Have another?"

"Thanks."

The two men sat and talked whilst the third bathed.

The rest of the expedition had remained at the Victoria Falls. There were a dozen white men altogether, and about a hundred and fifty natives. Lindsay heard that Knight was at Kazungula and came on to see him. The pair had been through the Matabele rebellion together, and had had other experiences in common. Hobday had insisted on coming too. His devotion to "The Head of the Expedition" rather embarrassed Lindsay. He was not a bad fellow on the whole, and a very capable doctor. The rest of the men with the exception of Gray--Knight knew Gray--were professional prospectors, good enough men at their particular job but a troublesome lot on an expedition.

No, they hadn't found anything really worth while, Lindsay thought, but some indications of oil might turn out a big thing.

Yes, they were going straight home from the Falls by way of Bulawayo, Salisbury and Beira, and if any of them came back to have another look, it would be this way and not in from Mombasa.

The question "Have another?" had been asked and satisfactorily answered before Hobday reappeared. He looked quite as funny in his host's clothes as Lindsay did. The only difference was that the coat and trousers supplied to him were as much too big for him as they were too small for Lindsay.

Hobday began to apologise for his appearance, but the announcement that dinner was ready cut short the unnecessary speech.

All three were hungry, the two visitors especially so.

If, during dinner, Hobday noticed that a native replenished his glass whenever it was empty, he made no protest.

The conversation almost at once turned to England, to London, and what each man had seen and done when last there. Towards the end of the meal dancing was the topic. These new dances, the jazz, the hesitation, the two-step, the fox-trot, and the rest; all agreed that they were impossible, that there was little difference, if any, between them and the average Kaffir dance. Hobday became quite eloquent on the subject, and, as they moved to chairs set ready for them round a camp fire, gravely stepped a measure which he was pleased to call the stately waltz, and then proceeded to contrast it with what he termed the ridiculous prancings of the present day.

Although the uncomplimentary terms which he applied to modern dancing could with equal justice have been applied to the waltz as danced by him, his companions agreed and fell to talking again of dances they had been to when last at home.

Suddenly Lindsay said: "Why shouldn't we have a dance? One could hum the tune while the other two dance. We can take it turn and turn about to him. You and Hobday dance first and I'll hum. Why not?"

And thus began the dance which is talked of to this day by the natives who saw it.

Lindsay hummed the "Eton Boating Song" whilst Knight and Hobday waltzed round and round the fire. Although he bobbed about in an unnecessarily energetic manner, it was clear to Knight that Hobday had been inside a ballroom.

Then Knight sat down and hummed the "Blue Danube," but very badly, and with many notes strange to the tune, for Lindsay was six foot three and Hobday only five foot four!

Then Knight and Lindsay danced to the "Merry Widow," hummed by Hobday. They really got on very well together in spite of Lindsay's bandaged feet, for both, in civilisation, were adjudged good dancing men.

After that they each had some light refreshment in the shape of another tot of gin, and it was then that Hobday showed himself to be a man of imagination.

"Let's all dance now," he said. "Let's dance the Lancers."

"How?" said Lindsay, "we are only three and there should be at least eight for the Lancers."

"That don't matter," replied Hobday, "you two fellows take sides, I'll do top and bottom; our partners--well, they're in England, don't you see?"

And so it came about that in the heart of Africa, under the star-lit sky, three sane and more or less sober Englishmen danced right through the Lancers from beginning to end, one taking top and bottom, the other two the sides, whilst their partners were present only in the mind of each.

After the dance they stood silently round the dying fire, gazing into the embers.

Who can say what fair forms and faces they saw there?

* * * * *

It was Knight who kicked the logs of the fire together and so brought about a sudden blaze.

"What's that?" asked Lindsay, peering into the darkness.

All looked and saw the whites of innumerable black men's eyes reflecting the camp firelight. Then there was a patter of many feet as the silent witnesses to the dance hurried away.

ON THE BUILDING OF BRIDGES.

If, in the course of conversation, a Rhodesian referred to "the Old Man," his fellow Rhodesians knew that Cecil John Rhodes was meant.

No one who knew him personally spoke of that great man as Rhodes; in Rhodesia such familiarity was impertinence.

If anyone in the Bulawayo Club said: "Rhodes told me ..." we turned our backs, as we knew the fellow was about to lie.

No, it must be "Mr. Rhodes" or "the Old Man."

I, personally, never got beyond "Mr. Rhodes" in his lifetime, and I don't see why I should now that he is dead.

As I was about to remark, the best piece of imaginative work that Mr. Rhodes ever did was to plan the Cape to Cairo Railway. It has not been carried out yet, but that doesn't matter; one day we shall see it, unless flying kills the train.

The corner-stone to this imaginative piece of work is, without a doubt, the bridge over the Victoria Falls.

I watched that bridge being built, not girder by girder, of course, but generally speaking. Old Mkuni watched it girder by girder.

Mkuni was a fine old savage, who had, in his far off younger days, carved out a little kingdom for himself. He possessed the left bank of a little river called the Maramba, some square miles of rock, a few acres of good land, and--the Victoria Falls.

A man who could establish his claim to the Falls has a right to be regarded as of some importance.

Within the memory of man a large herd of elephants went over the Falls and whirled in the Boiling Pot below--a noble offering to the spirits who dwell there. Anyone who denies that the Falls are the abode of spirits is a fool, be he white man or black.

Old Mkuni looked after the Falls and ministered in divers ways to the wants of the spirits who inhabited the place. He it was who, in fair and fierce battle, took this precious spot from old Sekute, the wall-eyed ruffian who used to live on the north bank of the Zambesi.

To hide his defeat from the eyes of passing natives, old Sekute set up a noble avenue of poles from the river to his village. On every pole he placed a human skull; these, he vowed, were the headpieces of Mkuni's men. Mkuni could afford to laugh, for did not he and all the world know that some of the grim trophies were the heads of Sekute's own followers, slain by Mkuni's men and added to at the expense of half a hundred of Sekute's own slaves? All this was before Livingstone discovered the Falls.

So you see, when all is said and done, Mkuni was a man worthy of respect. He always had mine, and we were fast friends.

It fell to my lot to tell him of the bridge which would stand astride the tumbling waters. He was interested, and gave his consent without reserve.

When he asked me how it was going to be done, I had to confess I did not know; engineering feats are not in my line.

"Are you going to build it, Morena?"

"No."

"Who then will build this bridge?"

"The people of the Great Man."

"The King of all the white men?"

"No, not he himself, but one of his greatest men."

"If the King would build it, I should believe, or," he added most politely, "if you would build it, I should agree that it can be done, but what do others know of bridges?"

This was a little difficult to answer, so I told him to watch.

Mkuni took my words literally; he did watch. He could be seen daily perched upon a rock overlooking the work, surrounded by a large number of his own people.

From time to time strangers from inland added to the watchers. To all Mkuni held forth:

"Am not I an old man now? Have I not killed many in battle? Did I not take the thundering smoke from a certain person? Who then knows so much of the building of bridges as I?"

With this inconsequent line of argument the crowd of watchers would murmur full agreement.

"When a man builds a small hut, is a pole from the ground to the roof necessary?"

"No," from his audience.

"That is true, but if a man builds a hut as high as Heaven, is not a pole necessary?"

All agreed that it was so.

"But see now these white men, who build a bridge across the thundering smoke. It is not the King of the white men who builds, nor he who collects from us the Hut Tax, but strangers. They build this bridge from the north bank and from the south, but where is the pole to hold up the roof of the bridge?"