CHAPTER VI ALONG THE TRAIL
"The land teems with the beasts of the chase, infinite in number and incredible in variety. It holds the fiercest beasts of ravin, and the fleetest and most timid of those beings that live in undying fear of talon and fang. It holds the largest and the smallest of hoofed animals. It holds the mightiest creatures that tread the earth or swim in its rivers; it also holds distant kinsfolk of these same creatures, no bigger than woodchucks, which dwell in crannies of the rocks and in tree tops. There are antelope smaller than hares and antelope larger than oxen. There are creatures which are the embodiments of grace, and others whose huge ungainliness is like that of a shape in a nightmare. The plains are alive with droves of strange and beautiful animals whose like is not known elsewhere; and with others even stranger that show both in form and temper something of the fantastic and the grotesque."
So Theodore Roosevelt, in that vivid word picture of jungle sights and sounds, the foreword of "African Game Trails," suggests the vast variety of animal acquaintances the hunter may make in Africa. I have sought out or happened upon many others besides my particular friends, the elephants and gorillas.
One of those whose "huge ungainliness is like that of a shape in a nightmare" is the hippopotamus. The small dugout in which the native makes his way up and down the Tana River is just a nice mouthful for him. He can splinter one between his great jaws in no time if he is sufficiently stirred up, but fortunately for the natives he is not easily enraged. He is more or less like the rhinoceros except that, while he is equally stupid, he rarely gets mad and so is not often dangerous.
Along the Tana River in 1906 the hippos were still very abundant, and I presume that a hunter passing along that stream to-day might shoot all he could possibly want. Although I saw probably only a small proportion of all I actually passed, I counted more than two hundred in a ten-mile march along the Tana. Sheltered by the rather high and precipitous banks of the river, the hippopotami if undisturbed bask quietly on the sand-bars during the day. If one is disturbed, he takes to the water, leaving exposed only the top of his head, his eyes, and nostrils, so that if he remains motionless one usually has to spend some time to determine whether the object protruding from the water is a hippo's head or a slate-coloured rock. If really frightened, he submerges entirely, exposing only his nostrils and those just long enough to blow and take in a fresh supply of air. Then down he goes, not to appear again for several minutes, frequently in quite a different place.
Cuninghame and I had a good opportunity to test his disposition one day as we were crossing Lake Naivasha. I was sitting at the tiller in the stern of the boat about half asleep in the hot sun of midday when there was a sudden explosion and our boat was lifted well out of the water. The keel had struck the back of a submerged hippopotamus. He came up thirty yards away with his mouth open, but he made no attempt to attack. We had the good luck to come down right side up, shipping only a little water. I hope he was as badly frightened as I was.
Because he is so little sport, even the pot hunters have left the hippo alone. However, most of the African tribes consider hippopotamus meat good eating and he is frequently killed by the natives for food. The fact is that in times of famine this animal is a valuable source of supply. In 1906, when we were on the Tana River, I found a bone yard with the bones of a great number of hippopotami along with various human bones. In a famine some fifteen or twenty years earlier, so the story goes, the natives had gravitated toward the Tana River to kill hippopotami to keep from starving and there had fought over this last source of food.
Double rows of tracks with grass growing between them, like those made by a wagon, trail along the Tana and are cut deep into the river's banks, where through long years the hippos have come up at night to graze and browse. His is a double track, because in travelling he does not place one foot before the other. He finds no food in the water, but he is at home there, and sometimes travels long distances overland from one pool or stream to another. How far he treks in this way I do not know, and the question is much disputed. I am certain that it is sometimes as much as fifty miles.
While I have found but little enjoyment in shooting any kind of animal, I confess that in hunting elephants and lions under certain conditions I have always felt that the animal had sufficient chance in the game to make it something like a sporting proposition. On the other hand, much of the shooting that I have had to do in order to obtain specimens for museum collections has had none of this aspect at all and has made me feel a great deal like a murderer. One of the worst of my experiences was with the wild ass of Somaliland on my first trip to Africa. These animals are rare, and as they are the only members of the horse family in that part of Africa, the Field Museum of Natural History was anxious to get specimens of them.
After several heart-breaking days' work my companion, Dodson, and I had secured but one specimen and several were needed for a group. One day under guidance of natives who promised to take us to a country where they abounded, we started out at three o'clock in the morning, with a couple of camels to bring back the skins if we got them. At about eight, as we were crossing a sandy plain where here and there a dwarfed shrub or tuft of grass had managed to find sustenance, one of the gun-bearers pointed out in the distance an object which he declared to be an ass. We advanced slowly. As there was no cover, there was no possibility of a stalk, and the chance of a shot at reasonable range seemed remote, for we had found in our previous experience that the wild ass is extremely shy and when once alarmed travels rapidly and for long distances. We approached to within two hundred yards and had begun to think that it was a native's tame donkey and expected to see its owner appear in the neighbourhood, when it became uneasy and started to bolt; but its curiosity brought it about for a last look and we took advantage of the opportunity and fired. It was hard hit, apparently, but recovered and stood facing us. We approached closer, and thinking it best to take no chances fired again—and then he merely walked about a little, making no apparent effort to go away. We approached carefully. He showed no signs of fear, and although "hard hit" stood stolidly until at last I put one hand on his withers and, tripping him, pushed him over. I began to feel that if this was sport I should never be a sportsman.
We now discovered that our scant supply of water was exhausted and although we wished to continue the hunt we realized that to get farther from camp without water would be risky indeed. The guide had assured us that there would be plenty of opportunity to get water on our route but we knew that it was five hours back to water, the way we had come, and five hours without water in the middle of the day would mean torture. It is said that in that region thirty hours without water means death to the native and twelve hours is the white man's limit. The guide assured us that if we would continue on an hour longer we would find water. After four hours of hard, hot marching we arrived at a hole in the ground where some time there had been water but not a drop remained. After a little digging at the bottom of the hole the natives declared there was no hope. Our trail for the last hour had been under a pitiless noonday sun along a narrow valley shut in on either side by steep, rocky hills, while we faced a veritable sand storm, a strong, hot wind that drove the burning sand into our faces and hands. The dry well was the last straw.
The guides said there was one more hole about an hour away and they would go and see if there was water there. They with the gun-bearers started out, while we off-saddled the mules and using the saddles for pillows and the saddle blankets to protect our faces from the driving sand, dozed in the scant shade of a leafless thorn tree.
At four o'clock the boys returned—no water. Dodson and I received the report, looked at one another, and returned to our pillows beneath the saddle blankets. A little later a continued prodding in the ribs from my gun-bearer brought me to attention again as he pointed out an approaching caravan consisting of several camels and a couple of natives. Each of the natives carried a well-filled goatskin from his shoulders, and realizing that these goatskins probably contained milk, I knew that our troubles were nearly over. I instructed the gun-bearer to make a bargain for part of the milk and covered my head again to escape the pelting of the sand and waited.
We were both in a semi-comatose state and I paid no further attention to proceedings until I was again prodded by the gun-bearer who was now greatly excited. He pointed to the receding camels while he jabbered away to the effect that the natives would not part with any of the plentiful supply of milk. The white men might die for all they cared.
When I had come to a realization of the situation, there seemed to be only one solution to the affair—a perfectly natural solution—precisely the same as if they had stood over us with their spears poised at our hearts. I grabbed my rifle and drew a bead on one of the departing men and called to Dodson to get up and cover the other. I waited while Dodson was getting to an understanding of the game and then when he was ready and I was about to give the word the natives stopped, gesticulating wildly. The gun-bearer who had been shouting to them told us not to shoot, that the milk would come, and it did. Milk! Originally milked into a dung-lined smoked chattie, soured and carried in a filthy old goatskin for hours in the hot sun. But it was good. I have never had a finer drink.
An hour before sundown, greatly refreshed, we started back to camp. Just at dusk the shadowy forms of five asses dashed across our path fifty yards away and we heard a bullet strike as we took a snap at them. One began to lag behind as the others ran wildly away. The one soon stopped and we approached, keeping him covered in case he attempted to bolt. As we got near he turned and faced us with great, gentle eyes. Without the least sign of fear or anger he seemed to wonder why we had harmed him.
The only wound was from a small bullet high in the neck, merely a flesh wound which would have caused him no serious trouble had he continued with the herd. We walked around him within six feet and I almost believe we could have put a halter on him. Certainly it would have been child's play to have thrown a rope over his head. We reached camp about midnight and I announced that if any more wild asses were wanted, someone else would have to shoot them. I had had quite enough. Normally, the ass is one of the wildest of creatures and it is difficult to explain the actions of these two. They appeared not to realize that we were the cause of their injuries but rather seemed to expect relief as we approached—and yet one English "sportsman" boasted of having killed twenty-eight.
While I have never had a zebra stand after being wounded, in all other respects his habits resemble very closely those of his kin, the wild ass of Somaliland. Occasionally, man has captured and domesticated zebras so that he may use them in a four-horse team. But this is done only for the amusement it affords, because the zebra, like all wild animals, has never quite enough of the endurance that is bred into a domesticated horse to make him useful in harness. In wild life he requires only sufficient stamina to outrun a lion for a short distance.
There is no fun in shooting zebras and wild asses. It makes one uncomfortable. Probably we are particularly thin-skinned when it comes to shooting the members of the horse family because we are used to them, or at least to their kindred, as domesticated friends, but as a matter of fact that is quite as reasonable as to think of killing deer or antelope as a sport. With most deer there is no danger. The only problem is to get close enough for a shot. While an approach may be difficult in some parts of the world—and this is true with certain species of antelope in Africa—most of the plains antelope cannot be shot on the ground of sport. For food and scientific purposes, however, the case is different.
One of the hardest to shoot among the so-called bovine antelopes is the koodoo. He is a beautiful, high-bred animal with clean-cut head and long spiral horns. While almost as large as an elk, he is gracefully built and stylish in action. His coat is gray, delicately marked with white stripes. As the animal matures, the hair becomes short and thin and the stripes fade. All in all, the koodoo is one of the finest big antelope. On that score he has no competitors except the sable and the roan.
A group of greater koodoos was a particular desideratum of the Field Museum and therefore one of the special objectives of my first African trip. As a matter of fact, we succeeded in collecting the material necessary and the group is on exhibition in the Field Museum in Chicago now. The old bull standing with lifted head on top of the rock in the present group was the second koodoo that I ever saw. The first one was his mate whom I was about to shoot, totally unconscious of the presence of the old bull. He stood beside her, his outline broken up by surrounding rocks and bushes, and I overlooked him entirely until he began to move. As he started to run I fired a shot. He bounded into the air, and as he struck the ground I fired again. The first shot had gone through his heart and the second broke his back.
When talking to people about shooting, I like to recall my koodoo experiences, because, while I am not a good shot as shooting goes in Africa, my two experiences with koodoos compare pretty favourably with the best. On the first occasion, one of my two shots landed in the heart and the other broke the koodoo's back. In my next koodoo hunt, my shooting was even more remarkable and for me more unusual. I came in sight of this second koodoo when he was too far away to shoot at and he rapidly ran out of sight through a country of little hills and ravines and scrub growth. I tracked him until I lost his trail. Then I decided to try to follow him by instinct and, constituting myself an escaping koodoo, I went where I thought such an animal should. I knew I was not exactly on his route because I could see no tracks. Then, too, something cord-like, weaving together the bushes on either side of my path, for a moment impeded my progress. It was a strand of web, the colour of gold, spun by a handsome yellow spider with black legs. Twisted together, it was substantial enough to be wound around and around my watch chain where I wore it for several years. Had my koodoo passed between those bushes, the web would, I knew, have been his necklace instead of my watch charm.
After following instinctively for two or three miles, I came to the top of a ridge which looked down across a ravine 500 to 600 yards wide. I crawled to the edge and looked over carefully, hoping to see my prey, but as I saw nothing I decided to get up and either scare him or give up the chase. As I stood up I saw him halfway across the ravine a little more than 300 yards away. When I rose, he began to run in the opposite direction. I had little chance of hitting him and so I fired at the rocks on the other side of the ravine. The wind was blowing from him to me and I did not know how distinctly he could hear the rifle, but there was no doubt about his hearing the rocks clatter down where the bullets struck. He stopped abruptly, listening, and as he did so I lay down and rested my rifle on the rocks. He was pausing behind a candelabra euphorbia so that I could see nothing but his head. I took careful aim and fired. A fraction of a second after the shot, when I had recovered from the kick of the rifle and had focussed my eyes on the spot, the koodoo was nowhere in sight. When I reached the euphorbia, he lay there dead. I looked him over to find where the bullet had hit him but found no sign of it. I turned him over and looked at his other side with no better results except that I found a few drops of blood. On further search I discovered that the bullet had gone in behind his ear. As he listened to the falling rocks, the ear had been thrown forward; as he fell, the ear had swung back to normal position and covered the tiny hole made by the full mantled bullet. The bullet had come out of his eye, but when I got there the eye was closed, so that the point of exit had been concealed also.
One day as I approached the hills, while I was still hunting koodoo for my group, I saw in the distance four animals which I took to be koodoo. They stood on a rock-strewn slope beneath an acacia tree and, as there were no horns visible, I assumed that they were cows and calves. I required one of each to complete my group. I made a careful stalk along the same ravine from which I had approached my first koodoo and, when I thought that I was at about the right point, I peered out and found the animals standing where I had seen them first, apparently about 200 yards away. I fired, and one dropped in his tracks. They were startled but had not located my direction and ran about confusedly. My second shot dropped another and the third shot wounded one which ran almost directly toward us. He covered the distance in an amazingly short time and went down beneath the bush only a little way from me. It was then that I came to a realization of what was happening. Instead of being koodoo 200 yards away, these were antelope pygmies less than 50 yards away and not more than twenty-three inches high at the shoulder. I had been completely fooled, but by what? That was the question.
I went over to the bush where the wounded animal had gone down near me, and stood for a moment looking at him open-mouthed and wondering what he was. Never had I heard of such an antelope. He had sharp straight horns four inches long and was a beautiful French gray in colour. Before I could observe anything else, he sprang to his feet and darted away on three legs faster, it seemed to me, than anything I had ever seen travel. I shot several times but never touched him. I followed for hours but did not overtake him. Later I learned that he was one of the little beira antelope. The species had been described some time before from fragments of skin obtained from natives. As far as records show, these specimens, an adult female and a half-grown one, were the first specimens taken by a white man.
This is a good example of a mistake that a hunter may easily make where there is nothing about of known size to give scale. The outline of the beira, characterized by the large ears, is almost a miniature of that of the koodoo. These tiny antelope had stood against a background of acacias on a pebbly slope. Acacias grow both large and small and a pebble among pebbles on a distant hillside may appear as a large boulder.
I continued hunting the little devils in a desperate effort to get a male at least. Several times I spent the day working about the two cone-shaped hills, now and then catching glimpses of the beira, only to have them disappear before I could shoot or get near enough to shoot. Several times when leaving the hills at dusk I turned around to see just on the skyline the heads and necks of three little antelope watching me as I went away discouraged. I believe they are the cunningest little beasties in all Africa.
As my beira antelope was the first specimen ever taken—or at least recorded—by a white man, it was a record. Another record head which I took came equally by chance. One evening as I came out of the forest, after some rather troublesome experiences with elephants, I caught sight of a bush buck. He caught sight of me also, and instead of making off he seemed to glare at me and stood stamping his foot. I may have imagined his emotions, but it seemed to me that all the animals were angry with me that day. I remember that it went through my mind, "I believe this fellow is going to charge, too." Then it occurred to me that we needed meat in camp, so I shot him and told the boys to cut him up and bring him in. As soon as they reached him, they called to me and I went over to see what was the matter. They showed me an unusually fine head. So I saved it. It turned out to be the record bush buck head at that time and I am not sure that it is not still.
The lesser koodoo, which is to be found in Somaliland in the aloe country at the base of the Golis range, is likewise a truly sporting animal, keen of sight and scent and fleet of foot. My first lesser koodoo stood looking at me through a bush no more than twenty-five yards away. My gun boy tried to point him out to me but I saw nothing until something bit the koodoo's ear and he flicked it. Realizing that he had given himself away, he jumped before I could shoot and I tracked him for an hour before I again came upon him. Then I saw him first. There is no finer sight in Africa than a lesser koodoo bull bounding over the spiny aloes with all of the grace of a porpoise in the water.
One of the most interesting antelope of Somaliland is the dibitag or Clark's gazelle. The dibitag live in the waterless bush country of the Haud and are shy and difficult to stalk. With their long legs and long necks they resemble and are closely related to the gerenuks (Waller's gazelle), but are less well known as they are confined to a limited range. In following an old male who had been travelling at full speed I found that its stride averaged twenty-eight feet, but at the same time he kept so close to the ground that midway of the stride, when one foot was carried forward, it scraped the sand. The animal weighs no more than seventy-five pounds. It is the most beautifully developed antelope I have ever handled, with muscles and loins rounded out like those of a prize fighter. These gazelle never have any fat and never drink any water. In fact, there is no water to be had except that in the vegetation, which is very little in a country where it has not rained for two years.
Unlike these sporting animals, the gazelle of the plains remind one of great herds of sheep, so gentle where they have not been hunted that one may come close enough to throw stones at them. On the other hand, where they have been shot, they grow wild and very difficult to approach. Here again is evidence that the thing that makes animals wild is man. In the antarctics and other places where man has not previously come and where the animals know no fear, the explorer can fairly tickle the seals under the chin. Animals in their natural state are not instinctively afraid of man, but they have learned from sad experience that man is bad medicine.
In direct contrast to the camp in Somaliland where we had been forced to quench our thirst with soured goat's milk taken from a passing caravan at the point of a rifle, was our camp on Lake Hannington, the home of the flamingos. The caravan route from Nakuru on the Uganda Railway to Lake Baringo swings in close to the Laikipia Escarpment at the east side of the Rift Valley and just at the north end of Hannington. Therefore, travellers usually get their first view of the lake at this northern point where few flamingos are to be seen except in breeding season and where the water is shallow, bordered by low mud flats crusted with a deposit of salts mingled with feathers, bones, and the droppings of the great colony. If the unattractiveness of the place were not sufficient to discourage a disposition to explore the lake, the sickening stench from the green waters must dishearten any one who has not a definite object in further investigation. Being unfamiliar with the region, we ignored the trail which would have given us this forbidding northern approach. As we neared the escarpment from the south, we found a small stream of crystal-clear water, and although it was too warm to be palatable, we were delighted with the discovery since the porters and horses were sadly in need of water. We decided to make camp here, and while selecting a place for the tents, the cook discovered a spring of boiling water which he appropriated for his uses. A little farther on a spring of ice-cold water was located so that we had all modern improvements as far at least as water supply was concerned.
After making camp, an hour's walk brought us to the top of a rocky hill from which we had an excellent view of nearly the entire length of the lake, an irregular sheet of water eight or ten miles long by perhaps two miles at the widest point. It lay before us, a shimmering blue-green mirror with occasional strips of snow-white beach. At the south end, that part nearest us, the water was much darker in colour owing to its greater depth, and the steep slopes of the escarpment were mirrored in its surface. Here and there along the shores jets and clouds of steam spurted forth from the numerous boiling springs and miniature geysers. Far away toward the centre of the lake what seemed great peninsulas and islands of rosy pink broke the placid surface of the lake—these were the flamingos that we had come to see.
A two hours' journey up the tortuous rock-strewn western shore brought us to the region which seems to be their favourite haunt. On our approach, the great flocks rose from the water and flew across toward the opposite shore, many alighting in mid-lake. As the birds arose, the splashing of water made by their running over the surface to get a start, the beating of wings, and the "kronk-kronk" of their calls created an indescribable din, while the charm of the marvellously beautiful sight was tempered by the odours that arose from the putrid waters churned by the activity of the birds.
The flamingos that had settled in mid-lake soon began to drift back in our direction and we hurriedly constructed a rude blind of green boughs on the shore. Here I awaited their return, camera in position, and within half an hour was surrounded by acres of the beautiful creatures. The greater number of the birds proved to be of the small, more brilliantly coloured species of African flamingo (Phoenicopterus minor), although a few of the larger species (Phoenicopterus roseus) were in small isolated flocks or scattered here and there among their smaller relatives. Evidently flamingos spend the entire year at Lake Hannington. So greatly did they interest us on this January visit that we returned in May hoping to find them nesting, but we were some six weeks too late. The young birds in their gray plumage were abundant and traces of the nests were to be seen at the north end of the lake.
One soon forgets about snakes in Africa although there are many poisonous species. In my experience of more than five years in the jungles, wandering about with from one hundred to two hundred and fifty semi-naked, barefoot men, I have never had to deal with a snake bite. On my last journey to the Kivu I had glimpses of two snakes all told.
Nor have I been pestered by mosquitoes. In all my African experience I have never had as many mosquitoes to contend with as I have had in a single night in my apartment on Central Park West. However, one avoids a single African mosquito as one would avoid the pest, because that is just what he may turn out to be. For six months at a time my mosquito nets have remained in the duffle bags.
In the game country there are millions of ticks, but as a rule their worst offence is simply to crawl over one. The spirillum tick must be avoided. I have never seen one but I have been incapacitated and brought near the door of death as a result of his work. And when the jigger decides to establish a colony under one's toenails he cannot be too quickly nor too carefully dispossessed.
There are other pests besides insects, snakes, and drouth to be guarded against in Africa. One of these is fire. In making a camp, it is always wise to burn off the ground about the tents for the sake of protection. The most strenuous fight I ever had to make against a grass fire took place in Uganda the day that I killed the big bull elephant now in the Milwaukee Public Museum. We had been working hard from eleven o'clock in the morning until early evening. Meanwhile, camp had been made close to our work in a country of bush and high grass. Immediately surrounding our camp the grass was five feet high and very dense and dry. To the east of us was a great jungle of elephant grass, a sort of cane growing to a height of ten or fifteen feet. For two or three hours I was conscious of a great fire to the east, but there was little wind and it travelled slowly. Whenever it came to one of the fields of elephant grass the roaring and crackling was quite appalling, and when it finally reached the clump of grass nearest our camp we realized that we would probably have to make a fight. There was no time to backfire and so we tried the next best thing. About twenty-five yards from the tents we started to make a trail stretching for a hundred yards across the path of the fire. This was done by bending the grass down on both sides, leaving a path along which we could move freely. Then the job was to stop the fire at the parting of the grass. A hundred men, each provided with an armful of green branches, scattered along this thin line to beat the fire out as it reached the division. We had a terrific fight. In several places the fire jumped across the trail, but each time enough men concentrated at that point to kill it before it got an overpowering foothold. It was hot, smoky, desperate work. When it was ended, the tents were safe although the men were thoroughly done up.
It was one of these grass fires, although by no means such a persistent one, that threatened Roosevelt's camp the night after our elephant hunt on the Uasin Gishu Plateau.