Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 25)( Page 6 ) Our Last Hunt

In a little while he seemed satisfied that all was well, and with head thrown slightly forward and the sure clean tread of his kind, he took his line unhesitatingly down the hill.  As he neared the thicker bush twenty yards away a sudden impulse made me give a shout.  In a single bound he was lost among the trees, and the clattering of loose stones and the crackle of sticks in his path had ceased before the cold shiver-down-the-back, which my spell breaking shout provoked, had passed away.  When I turned round Jock was still asleep: little incidents like that brought his deafness home. It was our last day's hunting together; and I went back to the dreary round of hard, hopeless, useless struggle and daily loss. One day, a calm cloudless day, there came without warning a tremendous booming roar that left the air vibrating and seemed to shake the very earth, as a thousand echoes called and answered from hill to hill down the long valley.  There was nothing to explain it; the kaffirs turned a sickly grey, and appealed to me; but I could give them no explanation-- it was something beyond my ken--and they seemed to think it an evil omen of still greater ill-luck.  But, as it turned out, the luck was not all bad: some days passed before the mystery was solved, and then we came to where Coombes, with whom a week earlier I had tried--and failed--to keep pace, had been blown to pieces with his boys, waggon, oxen, and three tons of dynamite: there was no fragment of waggon bigger than one's hand; and the trees all around were barked on one side.  We turned out to avoid the huge hole in the drift, and passed on. There were only twenty oxen left when we reached the drift below Fig Tree.  The water was nearly breast-high and we carried three-fourths of the loads through on our heads, case by case, to make the pull as easy as possible for the oxen, as they could only crawl then.  We got one waggon through with some difficulty, but at nightfall the second was still in the river; we had carried out everything removable, even to the buck-sails, but the weakened bullocks could not move the empty waggon. The thunder-clouds were piling up ahead, and distant lightning gave warning of a storm away up river; so we wound the trek-chain round a big tree on the bank, to anchor the waggon in case of flood, and reeling from work and weariness, too tired to think of food, I flung myself down in my blankets under the other waggon which was outspanned where we had stopped it in the double-rutted veld road, and settling comfortably into the sandy furrow cut by many wheels, was `dead to the world' in a few minutes.  Near midnight the storm awoke me and a curious coldness about the neck and shoulders made me turn over to pull the blankets up.  The road had served as a storm-water drain, converting the two wheel furrows into running streams, and I, rolled in my blankets, had dammed up one of them.  The prompt flow of the released water as soon as I turned over, told plainly what had happened.  I looked out at the driving rain and the glistening earth, as shown up by constant flashes of lightning: it was a world of rain and spray and  running water.  It seemed that there was neither hope nor mercy anywhere; I was too tired to care, and dropping back into the trough, slept the night out in water.

Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 25)( Page 5 ) Our Last Hunt

I was still laughing at him, when he stopped and turning sharply round made a snap at his side; and a few seconds later he did it again.  Then there was a thin sing of insect wings; and I knew that the Tsetse fly were on us. The only thought then was for Jock, who was still working busily round the sable.  For some minutes I sat with him between my legs, wisping away the flies with a small branch and wondering what to do.  It soon became clear that there was nothing to be gained by waiting: instead of passing away the fly became more numerous, and there was not a moment's peace or comfort to be had, for they were tackling me on the neck, arms, and legs, where the thorn-ripped pants left them bare to the knees; so, slinging the rifle over my shoulder, I picked Jock up, greatly to his discomfort, and carried him off in my arms at the best pace possible under the circumstances.  Half a mile of that was enough, however: the weight, the awkwardness of the position, the effort to screen him, and the difficulty of picking my way in very rough country at the same time, were too much for me.  A tumble into a grass-hidden hole laid us both out sprawling, and I sat down again to rest and think, swishing the flies off as before. Then an idea came which, in spite of all the anxiety, made me laugh, and ended in putting poor old Jock in quite the most undignified and ridiculous plight he had known since the days of his puppyhood when his head stuck in the bully-beef tin or the hen pecked him on the nose.  I ripped off as much of my shirt as was not needed to protect me against the flies, and making holes in it for his legs and tail fitted him out with a home-made suit in about five minutes.  Time was everything; it was impossible to run with him in my arms, but we could run together until we got out of the fly belt, and there was not much risk of being bitten as long as we kept up the running in the long grass.  It was a long spell, and what with the rough country and the uncontrollable laughter at the sight of Jock, I was pretty well done by the time we were safely out of the `fly.'  We pulled up when the country began to fall away sharply towards the river, and there, to Jock's evident satisfaction, I took off his suit--by that time very much tattered and awry. It was there, lying between two rocks in the shade of a marula tree, that I got one of those chances to see game at close quarters of which most men only hear or dream.  There were no snapshot cameras then! We had been lying there it may be for half an hour or more, Jock asleep and I spread out on my back, when a slight but distinct click, as of a hoof against a stone, made me turn quietly over on my side and listen. The rock beside me was about four feet high, and on the other side of it a buck of some kind, and a big one too, was walking with easy stride towards the river.  Every footstep was perfectly clear; the walk was firm and confident: evidently there was not the least suspicion of danger.  It was only a matter of yards between us, and what little breeze there was drifted across his course towards me, as he too made for the river, holding a course parallel with the two long rocks between which we were lying.  The footsteps came abreast of us and then stopped, just as I was expecting him to walk on past the rock and down the hill in front of me.  The sudden halt seemed to mean that some warning instinct had arrested him, or some least taint upon the pure air softly eddying between the rocks had reached him.  I could hear his sniffs, and pictured him looking about, silent but alarmed, before deciding which way to make his rush. I raised myself by inches, close to the rock, until I could see over it. A magnificent waterbuck bull, full-grown and in perfect coat and condition, was standing less than five yards away and a little to the right, having already passed me when he came to a stop: he was so close that I could see the waves and partings in his heavy coat; the rise and fall in his flanks as he breathed; the ruff on his shaggy bearded throat, that gave such an air of grandeur to the head; the noble carriage, as with head held high and slightly turned to windward he sniffed the breeze from the valley; the nostrils, mobile and sensitive, searching for the least hint of danger; and the eye, large and full and soft, luminous with watchful intelligence, and yet mild and calm--so free was it from all trace of a disturbing thought.  And yet I was so close, it seemed almost possible to reach out and touch him.  There was no thought of shooting: it was a moment of supreme enjoyment.  Just to watch him: that was enough.

Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 25)( Page 4 ) Our Last Hunt

It must have been at the fourth or fifth stand that Jock got through the guard at last.  The sable was badly wounded in the body and doubtless strength was failing, but there was little evidence of this yet.  In the pauses Jock's tongue shot and slithered about, a glittering red streak, but after short spells of panting, his head would shut up with a snap like a steel trap and his face set with that look of invincible resolution which it got in part from the pursed up mouth and in part from the intensity of the beady black-brown eyes: he was good for hours of this sort of work. This time the sable drove him back towards a big thorn-tree.  It may have been done without design, or it may have been done with the idea of pinning him up against the trunk.  But Jock was not to be caught that way; in a fight he took in the whole field, behind as well as in front-- as he had shown the night the second wild dog tackled him.  On his side, too, there may or may not have been design in backing towards the tree; who knows?  I thought that he scored, not by a manoeuvre, but simply because of his unrelaxing watchfulness and his resolute unhesitating courage.  He seemed to know instinctively that the jump aside, so safe with the straight-charging animals, was no game to play against the side sweep of a sable's horns, and at each charge of the enemy he had scrambled back out of range without the least pretence of taking liberties. This time the sable drove him steadily back towards the tree, but in the last step, just as the bull made his rush, Jock jumped past the tree and instead of scrambling back out of reach as before, dodged round and was in the rear of the buck before it could turn on him.  There were no flying heels to fear then, and without an instant's hesitation he fastened on one of the hind legs above the hock.  With a snort of rage and indignation the sable spun round and round, kicking and plunging wildly and making vicious sweeps with his horns; but Jock, although swung about and shaken like a rat, was out of reach and kept his grip. It was a quick and furious struggle, in which I was altogether forgotten, and as one more desperate plunge brought the bull down in a struggling kicking heap with Jock completely hidden under him, I ran up and ended the fight. It always took him some time to calm down after these tussles: he became so wound up by the excitement of the struggle that time was needed to run down again, so to say.  While I was busy on the double precaution of fixing up a scare for the aasvogels and cutting grass and branches to cover the buck, Jock moved restlessly round the sable, ever ready to pounce on him again at the least sign of life.  The slithering tongue and wide-open mouth looked like a big red gash splitting his head in two; he was so blown, his breath came and went like the puffing of a diminutive steam-engine at full speed, and his eyes with all the wickedness of fight--but none of the watchfulness--gone out of them, flickered incessantly from the buck to me: one sign from either would have been enough!  It was the same old scene, the same old performance, that I had watched scores of times; but it never grew stale or failed to draw a laugh, a word of cheer, and pat of affection; and from him there came always the same response, the friendly wagging of that stumpy tail, a splashy lick, a soft upward look, and a wider split of the mouth that was a laugh as plain as if one heard it.  But that was only an interruption--a few seconds' distraction: it did not put him off or satisfy him that all was well.  His attention went back to the buck, and the everlasting footwork went on again.  With his front to the fallen enemy and his fore legs well apart he kept ever on the move forwards and backwards, in quick steps of a few inches each, and at the same time edging round in his zigzag circle, making a track round the buck like a weather chart with the glass at `Changeable.' "Silly old fusser!  Can't you see he's finished?"  He could not hear anything, but the responsive wag showed that he knew I was talking to him; and, dodging the piece of bark I threw at him, he resumed his ridiculous round.

Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 25)( Page 3 ) Our Last Hunt

And at last it came: there was another slight shake of the horns, and the whole figure stood out in bold relief.  It was a fine sable bull lying in the shadow of one of the thorn-trees with his back towards us, and there was a small ant-heap close behind him, making a greyish blot against his black back and shoulder, and breaking the expanse of colour which the eye would otherwise easily have picked up. The ant-heap made a certain shot impossible, so I lowered myself slowly to the ground to wait until he should begin feeding or change his position for comfort or shade, as they often do: this might mean waiting for half an hour or more, but it was better than risking a shot in the position in which he was lying.  I settled down for a long wait with the rifle resting on my knees, confidently expecting that when the time came to move would get up slowly, stretch himself, and have a good look round.  But he did nothing of the kind; a turn or eddy of the faint breeze must have given him my wind; for there was one twitch of the horns, as his nose was laid to windward, and without an instant's pause he dashed off.  It was the quickest thing imaginable in a big animal: it looked as though he started racing from his lying position.  The bush was not close enough to save him, however, in spite of his start, and through the thin veil of smoke I saw him plunge and stumble, and then dash off again; and Jock seeing me give chase, went ahead and in half a minute I was left well behind, but still in sight of the hunt. I shouted at Jock to come back, just as one murmurs good-day to a passing friend in the din of traffic--from force of habit: of course, he could hear nothing.  It was his first and only go at a sable; he knew nothing of the terrible horns and the deadly scythe-like sweep that makes the wounded sable so dangerous--even the lioness had fought shy of them--and great as was my faith in him, the risk in this case was not one I would have taken.  There was nothing to do but follow.  A quarter of a mile on I drew closer up and found them standing face to face among the thorns.  It was the first of three or four stands; the sable, with a watchful eye on me, always moved on as I drew near enough to shoot.  The beautiful black and white bull stood facing his little red enemy and the fence and play of feint and thrust, guard and dodge, was wonderful to see.  Not once did either touch the other; at Jock's least movement the sable's head would go down with his nose into his chest and the magnificent horns arched forward and poised so as to strike either right or left, and if Jock feinted a rush either way the scythe-sweep came with lightning quickness, covering more than half a circle and carrying the gleaming points with a swing right over the sable's own back.  Then he would advance slowly and menacingly, with horns well forward ready to strike and eyes blazing through his eyebrows, driving Jock before him. There were three or four of these encounters in which I could take no hand: the distance, the intervening thorns and grass, and the quickness of their movements, made a  safe shot impossible; and there was always the risk of hitting Jock, for a hard run does not make for good shooting.  Each time as the sable drove him back there would be a short vicious rush suddenly following the first deliberate advance, and as Jock scrambled back out of the way the bull would swing round with incredible quickness and be off full gallop in another direction. Evidently the final rush was a manoeuvre to get Jock clear of his heels and flanks as he started, and thus secure a lead for the next run. Since the day he was kicked by the koodoo cow Jock had never tackled an unbroken hind leg; a dangling one he never missed; but the lesson of the flying heels had been too severe to be forgotten, and he never made that mistake again.  In this chase I saw him time after time try at the sable's flanks and run up abreast of his shoulder and make flying leaps at the throat; but he never got in front where the horns could reach him, and although he passed and repassed behind to try on the other side when he had failed at the one, and looked up eagerly at the hind legs as he passed them, he made no attempt at them.

Jock Of The Bushveld by Sir Percy Fitzpatrick (Chapter 25)( Page 2 ) Our Last Hunt

I had on several occasions interrupted fights between angry rivals: once two splendid koodoo bulls were at it; a second time it was two sables, and the vicious and incredibly swift sweep of the scimitar horns still lives in memory, along with the wonderful nimbleness of the other fellow who dodged it; and another time they were blue wildebeeste; but some interruption had occurred each time, and I had no more than a glimpse of what might have been a rare scene to witness. I was determined not to spoil it this time: no doubt it was a fight, and probably they were fencing and circling for an opening, as there was no bump of heads or clash of horns and no tearing scramble of feet to indicate the real struggle.  I crept on through the rocks and found before me a tangle of thorns and dead wood, impossible to pass through in silence; it was better to work back again and try the other side of the rocks.  The way was clearer there, and I crept up to a rock four or five feet high, feeling certain from the sound that the fight would be in full view a few yards beyond.  With the rifle ready I raised myself slowly until my eyes were over the top of the rock.  Some twenty yards off, in an open flat of down-trodden grass, I saw a sable cow: she was standing with feet firmly and widely planted, looking fiercely in front of her, ducking her head in threatening manner every few seconds, and giving angry snorts; and behind, and huddled up against her, was her scared bewildered little red-brown calf. It seems stupid not to have guessed what it all meant; yet the fact is that for the few remaining seconds I was simply puzzled and fascinated by the behaviour of the two sables.  Then in the corner of my eye I saw, away on my right, another red-brown thing come into the open: it was Jock, casting about with nose to ground for my trail which he had over-run at the point where I had turned back near the deadwood on the other side of the rocks. What happened then was a matter of a second or two.  As I turned to look at him he raised his head, bristled up all over, and made one jump forward; then a long low yellowish thing moved in the unbeaten grass in front of the sable cow, raised its head sharply, and looked full into my eyes; and before I could move a finger it shot away in one streak-like bound.  A wild shot at the lioness, as I jumped up full height; a shout at Jock to come back; a scramble of black and brown on my left; and it was all over: I was standing in the open ground, breathless with excitement, and Jock, a few yards off, with hind legs crouched ready for a dash, looking back at me for leave to go! The spoor told the tale; there was the outer circle made by the lioness in the grass, broken in places where she had feinted to rush in and stopped before the lowered horns; and inside this there was the smaller circle, a tangle of trampled grass and spoor, where the brave mother had stood between her young and death. Any attempt to follow the lioness after that would have been waste of time.  We struck off in a new direction, and in crossing a stretch of level ground where the thorn-trees were well scattered and the grass fairly short my eye caught a movement in front that brought me to instant standstill.  It was as if the stem of a young thorn-tree had suddenly waved itself and settled back again, and it meant that some long horned buck, perhaps a koodoo or a sable bull, was lying down and had swung his head; and it meant also that he was comfortably settled, quite unconscious of danger.  I marked and watched the spot, or rather, the line, for the glimpse was too brief to tell more than the direction; but there was no other move.  The air was almost still, with just a faint drift from him to us, and I examined every stick and branch, every stump and ant-heap, every bush and tussock, without stirring a foot. But I could make out nothing: I could trace no outline and see no patch of colour, dark or light, to betray him. It was an incident very characteristic of Bushveld hunting.  There I stood minute after minute--not risking a move, which would be certain to reveal me--staring and searching for some big animal lying half asleep within eighty yards of me on ground that you would not call good cover for a rabbit.  We were in the sunlight: he lay somewhere beyond, where a few scattered thorn-trees threw dabs of shade, marbling with dappled shade and light the already mottled surface of earth and grass.  I was hopelessly beaten, but Jock could see him well enough; he crouched beside me with ears cocked, and his eyes, all ablaze, were fixed intently on the spot, except for an occasional swift look up to me to see what on earth was wrong and why the shot did not come; his hind legs were tucked under him and he was trembling with excitement.  Only those will realise it who have been through the tantalising humiliating experience.  There was nothing to be done but wait, leaving the buck to make the first move.