Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 24)( Page 4 ) The Last Trek

I said nothing.  It was just about Sam's form; it annoyed but did not surprise me.  Jim favoured me with a hard searching look, a subdued grunt, and a click expressive of things he could not put into words, and without another word he turned and walked back towards his waggon.  But half-way to it he broke silence: facing me once more, he thumped his chest and hurled at me in mixed Zulu and English: "I said so!  Sam lead a Bible.  Sam no good.  Umph!  M'Shangaan!  I said so!  I always said so!" When Jim helped me to inspan Sam's waggon, he did it to an accompaniment of Zulu imprecations which only a Zulu could properly appreciate.  They were quite `above my head,' but every now and then I caught one sentence repeated like the responses in a litany: "I'll kill that Shangaan when I see him again!" At Lion Spruit there was more bad luck.  Lions had been troublesome there in former years, but for a couple of seasons nothing had been seen of them.  Their return was probably due to the fact that, because of the drought and consequent failure of other waters, the game on which they preyed had moved down towards the river.  At any rate, they returned unexpectedly and we had one bad night when the cattle were unmanageable, and their nerves all on edge.  The herd boys had seen spoor in the afternoon; at dusk we heard the distant roaring, and later on, the nearer and more ominous grunting.  I fastened Jock up in the tent-waggon lest the sight of him should prove too tempting; he was bristling like a hedgehog and constantly working out beyond the cattle, glaring and growling incessantly towards the bush.  We had four big fires at the four corners of the outspan, and no doubt this saved a bad stampede, for in the morning we found a circle of spoor where the lions had walked round and round the outspan.  There were scores of footprints--the tracks of at least four or five animals. In the Bushveld the oxen were invariably tied up at night, picketed to the trek-chain, each pair at its yoke ready to be inspanned for the early morning trek.  Ordinarily the weight of the chain and yokes was sufficient to keep them in place, but when there were lions about, and the cattle liable to be scared and all to sway off together in the same direction, we took the extra precaution of pegging down the chain and anchoring the front yoke to a tree or stake.  We had a lot of trouble that night, as one of the lions persistently took his stand to windward of the cattle to scare them with his scent.  We knew well enough when he was there, although unable to see anything, as all the oxen would face up wind, staring with bulging eyeballs in that direction and braced up tense with excitement.  If one of them made a sudden move, the whole lot jumped in response and swayed off down wind away from the danger, dragging the gear with them and straining until the heavy waggons yielded to the tug.  We had to run out and then drive them up again to stay the stampede.  It is a favourite device of lions, when tackling camps and outspans, for one of them to go to windward so that the terrified animals on winding him may stampede in the opposite direction where the other lions are lying in wait. Two oxen broke away that night and were never seen again.  Once I saw a low light coloured form steal across the road, and took a shot at it; but rifle-shooting at night is a gamble, and there was no sign of a hit. I was too short-handed and too pressed for time to make a real try for the lions next day, and after a morning spent in fruitless search for the lost bullocks we went on again. Instead of fifteen to eighteen miles a day, as we should have done, we were then making between four and eight--and sometimes not one.  The heat and the drought were awful; but at last we reached the Crocodile and struck up the right bank for the short cut--Pettigrew's Road--to Barberton, and there we had good water and some pickings of grass and young reeds along the river bank. The clouds piled up every afternoon; the air grew still and sultry; the thunder growled and rumbled; a few drops of rain pitted the dusty road and pattered on the dry leaves; and that was all.  Anything seemed preferable to the intolerable heat and dust and drought, and each day I hoped the rain would come, cost what it might to the fly-bitten cattle; but the days dragged on, and still the rain held off.

Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 24)( Page 3 ) The Last Trek

He was only the first to go; day by day others followed.  Some were only cattle: others were old friends and comrades on many a trek.  The two big after-oxen Achmoed and Bakir went down early; the Komati Drift had over-tried them, and the weight and jolting of the heavy disselboom on the bad roads finished them off.  These were the two inseparables who worked and grazed, walked and slept, side by side--never more than a few yards apart day or night since the day they became yoke-fellows.  They died on consecutive days. But the living wonder of that last trek was still old Zwaartland the front ox!  With his steady sober air, perfect understanding of his work, and firm clean buck-like tread, he still led the front span.  Before we reached the Crocodile his mate gave in--worn to death by the ebbing of his own strength and by the steady indomitable courage of his comrade. Old Zwaartland pulled on; but my heart sank as I looked at him and noted the slightly `staring' coat, the falling flanks, the tread less sure and brisk, and a look in his eyes that made me think he knew what was coming but would do his best. The gallant-hearted old fellow held on.  One after another we tried with him in the lead, half a dozen or more; but he wore them all down.  In the dongas and spruits, where the crossings were often very bad and steep, the waggons would stick for hours, and the wear and strain on the exhausted cattle was killing: it was bad enough for the man who drove them.  To see old Zwaartland then holding his ground, never for one moment turning or wavering while the others backed jibbed and swayed and dragged him staggering backwards, made one's heart ache.  The end was sure: flesh and blood will not last for ever; the stoutest heart can be broken. The worst of it was that with all the work and strain we accomplished less than we used to do before in a quarter of the time.  Distances formerly covered in one trek took three, four, and even five now. Water, never too plentiful in certain parts, was sadly diminished by the drought, and it sometimes took us three or even four treks to get from water to water.  Thus we had at times to drive the oxen back to the last place or on to the next one for their drinks, and by the time the poor beasts got back to the waggons to begin their trek they had done nearly as much as they were able to do. And trouble begot trouble, as usual!  Sam the respectable, who had drawn all his pay in Delagoa, gave up after one hard day and deserted me.  He said that the hand of the Lord had smitten me and mine, and great misfortune would come to all; so he left in the dark at Crocodile Drift, taking one of the leaders with him, and joined some waggons making for Lydenburg.  The work was too hard for him; it was late in the season; he feared the rains and fever; and he had no pluck or loyalty, and cared for no one but himself. I was left with three leaders and two drivers to manage four waggons. It was Jim who told me of Sam's desertion.  He had the cross, defiant, pre-occupied look of old; but there was also something of satisfaction in his air as he walked up to me and stood to deliver the great vindication of his own unerring judgment: "Sam has deserted you and taken his voorlooper."  He jerked the words out at me, speaking in Zulu.

Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 24)( Page 2 ) The Last Trek

The next water on the road was Komati River, but the cattle were too weak to reach it in one trek, and remembering another pool off the road--a small lagoon found by accident when out hunting the year before--we moved on that night out on to the flats and made through the bush for several miles to look for water and grass. We found the place just after dawn.  There was a string of half a dozen pools ringed with yellow-plumed reeds--like a bracelet of sapphires set in gold--deep deep pools of beautiful water in the midst of acres and acres of rich buffalo grass.  It was too incredibly good! I was trekking alone that trip, the only white man there, and--tired out by the all-night's work, the long ride, and the searching in the bush for the lagoon--I had gone to sleep after seeing the cattle to the water and grass.  Before midday I was back among them again; some odd movements struck a chord of memory, and the night at Low's Creek flashed back.  Tails were swishing freely, and the bullock nearest me kicked up sharply at its side and swung its head round to brush something away.  I moved closer up to see what was causing the trouble: in a few minutes I heard a thin sing of wings, different from a mosquito's, and there settled on my shirt a grey fly, very like and not much larger than a common house-fly, whose wings folded over like a pair of scissors.  That was the "mark of the beast."  I knew then why this oasis had been left by transport-rider and trekker, as nature made it, untrodden and untouched. Not a moment was lost in getting away from the `fly.'  But the mischief was already done; the cattle must have been bitten at Low's Creek weeks before, and again that morning during the time I slept; and it was clear that, not drought and poverty, but `fly' was the cause of their weakness.  After the first rains they would begin to die, and the right thing to do, now was to press on as fast as possible and deliver the loads.  Barberton was booming and short of supplies and the rates were the highest ever paid; but I had done better still, having bought my own goods, and the certain profit looked a fortune to me.  Even if all the cattle became unfit for use or died, the loads would pay for everything and the right course therefore was to press on; for delay would mean losing both cattle and loads--all I had in the world--and starting again penniless with the years of hard work thrown away. So the last hard struggle began.  And it was work and puzzle day and night, without peace or rest; trying to nurse the cattle in their daily failing strength, and yet to push them for all they could do; watching the sky cloud over every afternoon, promising rain that never came, and not knowing whether to call it promise or threat; for although rain would bring grass and water to save the cattle, it also meant death to the fly-bitten. We crossed the Komati with three spans--forty-four oxen--to a waggon, for the drift was deep in two places and the weakened cattle could not keep their feet.  It was a hard day, and by nightfall it was easy to pick out the oxen who would not last out a week.  That night Zole lay down and did not get up again--Zole the little fat schoolboy, always out of breath, always good-tempered and quiet, as tame as a pet dog.

Mr George Adamson The Father Of Lions

George Adamson with his female lion Elsa

George Adamson with his lions

George Adamson with his son the lion Christian



 

A Lion Called Christian (Full Documentary)

Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 24)( Page 1 ) The Last Trek

It was Pettigrew's Road that brought home to me, and to others, the wisdom of the old transport-riders' maxim: `Take no risks.'  We all knew that there were `fly' belts on the old main road but we rushed these at night, for we knew enough of the tsetse fly to avoid it; however the discovery of the new road to Barberton, a short cut with plenty of water and grass, which offered the chance of working an extra trip into the short Delagoa season, tempted me, among others, to take a risk.  We had seen no `fly' when riding through to spy out the land, and again on the trip down with empty waggons all had seemed to be well; but I had good reason afterwards to recall that hurried trip down and the night spent at Low's Creek.  It was a lovely moonlight night, cool and still, and the grass was splendid; after many weeks of poor feeding and drought the cattle revelled in the land of plenty.  We had timed our treks so as to get through the suspected parts of the road at night, believing that the fly did not trouble after dark, and thus we were that night outspanned in the worst spot of all--a tropical garden of clear streams, tree-ferns, foliage plants, mosses, maidenhair, and sweet grass!  I moved among the cattle myself, watching them feed greedily and waiting to see them satisfied before inspanning again to trek through the night to some higher and more open ground.  I noticed then that their tails were rather busy.  At first it seemed the usual accompaniment of a good feed, an expression of satisfaction; after a while, however, the swishing became too vigorous for this, and when heads began to swing round and legs also were made use of, it seemed clear that something was worrying them.  The older hands were so positive that at night cattle were safe from fly, that it did not even then occur to me to suspect anything seriously wrong.  Weeks passed by, and although the cattle became poorer, it was reasonable enough to put it down to the exceptional drought. It was late in the season when we loaded up for the last time in Delagoa and ploughed our way through the Matolla swamp and the heavy sands at Piscene; but late as it was, there was no sign of rain, and the rain that we usually wanted to avoid would have been very welcome then.  The roads were all blistering stones or powdery dust, and it was cruel work for man and beast.  The heat was intense, and there was no breeze; the dust moved along slowly apace with us in a dense cloud--men, waggons, and animals, all toned to the same hue; and the poor oxen toiling slowly along drew in the finely-powdered stuff at every breath.  At the outspan they stood about exhausted and panting, with rings and lines of brown marking where the moisture from nostrils, eyes and mouths had caught the dust and turned it into mud.  At Matolla Poort, where the Lebombo Range runs low, where the polished black rocks shone like anvils, where the stones and baked earth scorched the feet of man and beast to aching, the world was like an oven; the heat came from above, below, around--a thousand glistening surfaces flashing back with intensity the sun's fierce rays.  And there, at Matolla Poort, the big pool had given out! Our standby was gone!  There, in the deep cleft in the rocks where the feeding spring, cool and constant, had trickled down a smooth black rock beneath another overhanging slab, and where ferns and mosses had clustered in one little spot in all the miles of blistering rocks, there was nothing left but mud and slime.  The water was as green and thick as pea-soup; filth of all kinds lay in it and on it; half a dozen rotting carcases stuck in the mud round the one small wet spot where the pool had been--just where they fell and died; the coat had dropped away from some, and mats of hair, black-brown and white, helped to thicken the green water.  But we drank it.  Sinking a handkerchief where the water looked thinnest and making a little well into which the moisture slowly filtered, we drank it greedily.

Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 23)( Page 7 ) The Fighting Baboon

Near the Crocodile on our way down we heard from men coming up that Seedling had been there some days before but that, hearing we were on the way down and had sworn to shoot him, he had ridden on to Komati, leaving one horse behind bad with horse-sickness.  The report about shooting him was, of course, ridiculous--probably his own imagination-- but it was some comfort to know that he was in such a state of terror that his own fancies were hunting him down. At Komati we learned that he had stayed three days at the store of that Goanese murderer, Antonio--the same Antonio who on one occasion had tried to drug and hand over to the enemy two of our men who had got into trouble defending themselves against raiding natives; the same Antonio who afterwards made an ill-judged attempt to stab one Mickey O'Connor in a Barberton canteen and happily got brained with a bottle of his own doctored spirit for his pains. Antonio suspecting something wrong about a white man who came on horseback and dawdled aimlessly three days at Komati Drift, going indoors whenever a stranger appeared, wormed the secret out with liquor and sympathy; and when he had got most of Seedling's money out of him, by pretence of bribing the Portuguese officials and getting news, made a bold bid for the rest by saying that a warrant was out for him in Delagoa and he must on no account go on.  The evil-looking half-caste no doubt hoped to get the horse saddle and bridle, as well as the cash, and was quite prepared to drug Seedling when the time came, and slip him quietly into the Komati at night where the crocodiles would take care of the evidence. Antonio, however, overshot the mark; Seedling who knew all about him, took fright, saddled up and bolted up the river meaning to make for the Lebombo, near the Tembe Drift, where Bob McNab and his merry comrades ran free of Governments and were a law unto themselves.  It was no place for a nervous man, but Seedling had no choice, and he went on.  He had liquor in his saddle bags and food for several days; but he was not used to the bush, and at the end of the first day he had lost his way and was beyond the river district where the kaffirs lived. So much is believed, though not positively known; at any rate he left the last kraal in those parts about noon, and was next heard of two days later at a kraal under the Lebombo.  There he learnt that the Black Umbelusi, which it would be necessary to swim--as Snowball and Tsetse had done--lay before him, and that it was yet a great distance to Sebougwaans, and even then he would be only half-way to Bob's.  Seedling could not face it alone, and turned back for the nearest store. The natives said that before leaving the kraal he bought beer from them, but did not want food; for he looked sick; he was red and swollen in the face; and his eyes were wild; the horse was weak and also looked sick, being very thin and empty; but they showed him the footpath over the hills which would take him to Tom's--a white man's store on the road to Delagoa--and he left them!  That was Tom Barnett's at Piscene, where we always stopped; for Tom was a good friend of ours. That was how we came to meet Seedling again.  He had made a loop of a hundred and fifty miles in four days in his efforts to avoid us; but he was waiting for us when we arrived at Tom Barnett's.  We who had hurried on to catch him, believing that the vengeance of justice depended on us, forgot that it has been otherwise decreed. Tom stood in the doorway of his store as we walked up--five feet one in his boots, but every inch of it a man--with his hands resting idly on his hips and a queer smile on his face as he nodded welcome. "Did a white man come here on horseback during the last few days from the Drift?" "No!" "On foot?" "No, not the whole way." "Is he here now?"  Tom nodded. "You know about him, Tom?" "Seedling! the chap you're after, isn't it?" "Yes," we answered, lowering our voices.  Tom looked from one to the other with the same queer smile, and then making a move to let us into the store said quietly: "He won't clear, boys; he's dead!"  Some kaffirs coming along the footpath from the 'Bombo had found the horse dead of horse-sickness half a day away, and further on--only a mile or so from the store--the rider lying on his back in the sun, dying of thirst.  He died before they got him in.  He was buried under a big fig tree where another and more honoured grave was made later on. Jim sat by himself the whole evening and never spoke a word.