II.
Mr. Charles M. Sheldon, the well-known war artist, who has done splendid work for The Wide World, has had several exciting experiences in the course of his career. He was the special artist for Black and White during the Dongola Campaign in 1896, and received the Khedivial medal with two clasps awarded to the correspondents. He went through the Spanish-American War in Cuba, was dispatched to South Africa at the time of the Jameson Raid, and has also represented his paper in India. Mr. Sheldon has a studio full of interesting souvenirs of his various campaigns.
MR. CHARLES M. SHELDON, WHOSE JOURNEY DOWN THE HANNOCK CATARACT ON THE SIDE OF A CAPSIZED BOAT IS HERE DESCRIBED.
From a Photograph.
It was during the Dongola Campaign that Mr. Sheldon met with his most exciting adventure, and the fact that he is alive to-day is more owing to good fortune, he says, than to any skill on his part on that occasion.
Mr. Sheldon joined the column advancing on Dongola under the command of the Sirdar, then Sir Herbert Kitchener, at Wadi Halfa, and was present at the Battle of Firket. After the battle, and while the railway was being brought up, the army camped for a couple of months at Kosheh, where, in addition to the terrible heat and sandstorms, cholera broke out, and threatened at one time to annihilate the camp. When the railway was completed as far as Kosheh, the force marched across an arm of the desert to Hafir, where the gunboats drove the dervishes from their forts with such loss that Dongola fell after very little resistance. The country being cleared of the enemy, and the war for that year at an end, the correspondents made hasty preparations for their journey to Cairo on their way back to England. In order to reach rail-head, they decided to travel by boat down the Nile to Firket, Mr. Sheldon and Mr. Seppings Wright, the artist of the Illustrated London News, arranging to make the journey together. Having sold their horses and camels and discharged their native grooms, with the exception of one camel-man, they packed their baggage and war-trophies on board a boat—purchased from Mr. H. A. Gwynne, now editor of the Standard—and started down the river. They expected to accomplish the journey in about six days and nights, and for the first three days the conditions were delightful, as, floating mainly with the swift current, they made rapid progress, enjoying to the full their enforced ease after the hard work of the campaign. As they approached the Hannock, or third cataract of the Nile, however, the voyage became more exciting, and extreme caution was necessary on the part of the pilot in charge of the boat. The Hannock cataract is, indeed, a formidable menace to navigation, consisting as it does of about sixty miles of shelving ledges of rock and groups of huge boulders, over and among which the water rushes headlong in a series of whirlpools and rapids. It was here that several of the boats taking part in Sir Garnet Wolseley’s campaign were overturned and many lives lost.
THE ROUGH SKETCH OF THE RAPIDS WHICH MR. SHELDON WAS MAKING WHEN THE DISASTER OCCURRED—IT WAS AFTERWARDS RECOVERED FROM THE WRECK OF THE BOAT.
The first few miles of the cataract were negotiated in safety in the early morning, and Mr. Sheldon had just finished making a sketch of the rapids when sudden and dire disaster overtook the party. The boat was a stoutly built, three-quarter-decked craft, with one huge wing-like sail, and the pilot had given the sheet into the care of the camel-man, who, to save himself trouble, tied it, unobserved, to one of the seats. Finding it necessary to tack across the river, to take the boat through a safe channel between the rocks, the pilot, to bring the sail over, shouted to the man to let go the rope. As it was securely fastened to the seat, however, he was unable to do so, and in an instant, as the strong wind caught the tacking boat, it capsized, flinging its occupants with startling suddenness into the water.
Mr. Sheldon sank, but, after what seemed to him an interminable time, rose to the surface, and, dashing the water from his eyes, found himself battling with the full force of the seething current, which threatened every instant to hurl him against the rocks. He realized immediately that he would have a hard fight for his life, and at once struck out for the boat, which was floating on her side some distance off. The only other alternative was to swim to the nearest shore, but, as that was a quarter of a mile or more away, Mr. Sheldon knew that he would be unable to reach it alive in such a terrific current.
After a desperate struggle he gained the boat and pulled himself up astride the gunwale. Mr. Seppings Wright had also managed to reach the boat, which, under their combined weight, was floating but six inches out of the water; while the pilot and camel-man hung on to the mast and spar—all of them looking, as Mr. Sheldon says, more like half-drowned rats than anything else he can think of.
It was quite evident that their position was critical, their one hope being to cling to the boat, which was being carried down the Nile at an alarming rate. At any moment it might go to pieces among the great masses of rock and huge basalt boulders which projected from the surface of the river throughout the entire length of the cataract. Indeed, their chances of ever setting foot again on dry land appeared to be well-nigh hopeless. It was only with extreme difficulty that they managed to cling to the little craft as it plunged and kicked in the swirling eddies of the cataract, and, once at the mercy of the furious torrent, they knew full well that nothing short of a miracle could save them.
Both men discarded most of their clothing, for, as the wreck carried them down the smooth slides over the ledges of rock—for all the world like weirs—the boat was continually being sucked under the surface of the water. When this happened and they were unable to retain their hold, it was only by swimming with all their strength that they were able to regain the boat when she rose again. Their baggage and cherished war trophies had all been thrown into the water, and most of them went straight to the bottom. But here and there they could see saddles, valises, boxes, helmets, and other articles bobbing about in the current until hurled against the rocks and destroyed, or detained far behind in eddies.
“ON AND ON THE BOAT CARRIED THEM, SEEMINGLY ENDOWED WITH HUMAN INTELLIGENCE AS IT DODGED THE ROCKS.”
On and on the boat carried them, seemingly endowed with human intelligence as it dodged the rocks and found a way for itself through the intricate channels of the cataract, while the shipwrecked crew could but cling to the gunwale with all their strength and trust to Providence for their ultimate safety.
In this way mile after mile of the cataract was passed, with Mr. Sheldon and his companions hoping against hope that the current would take them near enough to the shore to swim for it. In this, however, they were disappointed, for their craft kept well in the middle of the stream. Presently, moreover, they drifted into another and worse rapid, where, caught suddenly in a huge eddy, they were carried round and round until the boat, after twisting and ducking in a manner that threatened to break it up, incontinently sank beneath them—for good and all, it seemed. This time it was a swim for life, and they were all but exhausted when, dazed and spluttering, they succeeded in once more regaining the boat, which had come up, in this instance, behind them. The principal danger they feared was that the boat, which was continually swinging round, would drift broad-side on to the rocks and break up completely.
Again and again, as they continued their mad career, a huge boulder would loom up threateningly from out a smother of foam, and it looked as though nothing could save the wreck from final disaster, but invariably the self-navigated vessel would win a way for itself, at times actually shaving the very side of the rock.
During their passage down the cataract the artists saw several native villages and also some large ghyassas (native boats) drawn up on the bank, but their frantic signals for help were either absolutely ignored, or the natives, in their usual way, expended their energy in urging one another to do something until the capsized boat was far out of sight.
Hour after hour they raced along—sometimes for a mile or two in comparatively easy water, but more often struggling to retain their hold as the vessel rolled and pitched in the rapids.
The afternoon waned at last, and with evening came a welcome abatement of the sun’s pitiless rays, but still the anxious journey continued, with current and rapid in long succession. The strength of the two weary artists and the natives had by this time all but given out, and, thoroughly exhausted and battered as they were, it was evident that if they did not reach the shore before the rapidly-approaching darkness fell it would certainly be all up with them. Then, providentially, a curve in the river took the current close into the bank, carrying the boat to within some thirty yards of the shore. The castaways realized at once that this was a golden opportunity, but in their weak state it was exceedingly doubtful if they would be able to swim to the bank. As luck would have it, however, a number of natives appeared on the spot. They had been watching the capsized craft with evident curiosity, and now, in response to urgent signals for help, they put off to the assistance of Mr. Sheldon and his companions. They easily reached the boat, bringing with them the curious, wedge-shaped floats, constructed of reed-like sticks of ambatch wood, which they use in crossing the Nile. With the timely aid of this primitive form of river craft, Mr. Sheldon, Mr. Seppings Wright, and the natives reached the bank in safety. Their voyage down the dangerous Hannock cataract on the side of a derelict boat, lasting as it did from nine o’clock in the morning until sunset, in the course of which they were carried through some sixty miles of rock-strewn rapids, is, it is safe to say, unique as a record of endurance and long-drawn-out peril, fraught with possibilities of the most alarming description.
On reaching the shore they sank down dead-beat on the bank. Their condition was most wretched, such little clothing as they retained consisting of soaked and tattered rags. They had no means of making a fire, which they badly needed, as, with the setting of the sun, the terrific heat of the day was succeeded by the chill night air of the desert. To make matters worse, the natives either could not or would not give them anything to eat, and the only food they had of their own was a tin of preserved ginger, found in a valise which one of the natives rescued from the current.
The night, as may well be imagined, was passed in misery and discomfort, but with the morning the welcome discovery was made that directly opposite, a mile away on the farther bank, was one of the hospital camps established by the Egyptian field force. Mr. Sheldon thereupon bribed a native at the cost of a razor, also found in the valise, to swim the river and obtain help for the party.
Now, at length, their troubles were ended. The commandant of the camp signalled to a steamer, which carried them over to the other side, where the officer provided them with dry clothes and what they most appreciated, comfortable beds to sleep in.
There are but few artists, even marine artists, who have actually followed the sea as a profession. A well-known name among the few who have done so is that of Mr. E. S. Hodgson, whose strong, vigorous illustrations of seafaring adventures are a familiar feature in The Wide World. A casual glance at his drawings is sufficient to show that he has an intimate acquaintance with the life and customs of a sailor, and they are executed with a realistic touch that could not be attained except by personal experience.
Mr. Hodgson, while on a voyage, once met with a serious accident which nearly cost him his life; and it was entirely owing to the effects of this mishap that he gave up the sea and decided to become an artist. Mr. Hodgson has provided us with the following account of what happened to him for inclusion in our series of “Adventures of Wide World Artists.” His ship, the barque Her Majesty, six hundred tons register, sailed from the London Docks bound for the West Indies with a cargo of bricks and rice for the prisons in Martinique.
For some weeks nothing out of the ordinary routine of life aboard ship occurred, Her Majesty bowling along with a favourable wind and making good headway.
The north-east trades had only just been reached, however, when bad weather was encountered, storms and squalls succeeding each other day after day.
MR. E. S. HODGSON, WHO FELL FROM THE MAST OF A SHIP TO THE DECK BELOW, A DISTANCE OF OVER A HUNDRED FEET.
From a Photograph.
“All hands on deck,” was the order one bleak, dark night when a sudden blustering gale arose, and Mr. Hodgson, with the rest of the crew who were keeping their watch below, tumbled up, none too pleased at the prospect of a night on deck instead of in their bunks.
“Jump up there, my lad, and make fast the fore-royal,” was the skipper’s order to our artist.
“Aye, aye, sir,” he replied, as he made for the foot of the shrouds. The gale was blowing at a terrific rate, causing the ship to plunge and roll heavily, and Mr. Hodgson’s task would have been a dangerous one even for a much more experienced sailor. The order had been given, however, and up he had to go.
It was a perilous journey up into the blackness of the night, and he had literally to feel his way rope by rope, hanging on by hands and toes. The oscillation of the ship was so violent that he expected every moment to be flung into the sea, while the thudding of the clewed-up sails threatened to carry the masts overboard. Higher and higher he climbed until he reached the top-gallant rigging, where the fury of the gale literally pinned him to the ropes, but at length he managed to crawl out on to the yard. The foot-ropes were shallow, making it necessary for him to kneel on them, but once out on the yard Mr. Hodgson applied himself to the work of securing the sail with all possible speed, a task which the pitch-darkness of the night and the plunging of the ship rendered one of extreme difficulty, perched as he was over a hundred feet above the level of the deck. He had bent over to gather the madly-slatting canvas when suddenly it bellied up over the yard and bore him irresistibly backwards with it. In a flash he saw his danger and, with a frantic clutch, tried to grasp the sail—missed it—and realized that he was falling! The accident had happened so suddenly that for the moment he was unconscious of the full extent of his peril; his brain was unable to take in the terrible significance of what had occurred, and the situation seemed unreal—a passing freak of the imagination that would presently be dispelled. Then the blackness seemed to lessen slightly and, coming slowly towards him, he could see the top-gallant yard and the men on it busy furling the sail. Mr. Hodgson says the sensation he experienced was that of floating easily and gently in the air; he did not seem to be actually falling. Next the upper topsail yard appeared to pass him, brushing gently by him on its way “up.” Then, with a vague sense of wonder, he noticed that he could make out clearly all the details of the deck, which seemed to be rushing up towards him with a gigantic leap. At once, as his brain cleared, the appalling truth dawned on him that he was falling down, down, through the darkness, and with a feeling of unutterable horror he realized that, powerless to help himself, he must, in the course of the next few seconds, be dashed to his death on the deck, or to an equally certain fate in the roaring seas alongside.
The various objects now began to lose their shape and the darkness closed in again; then came oblivion, for, mercifully, Mr. Hodgson lost consciousness before he reached the deck.
“Poor laddie! I doot he’s gone. This will be sore news to send home.” This remark, coming to him as though from far away, was Mr. Hodgson’s first intimation that he was still alive. He recognised the skipper’s voice, and, opening his eyes, discovered that he was lying on the deck, surrounded by the entire ship’s crew, with the captain bending over him. He was in such frightful agony, however, that he promptly fainted away again, and did not recover consciousness for a week. He then found out that his leg was fractured in three places, and as the ship was three weeks’ journey from the nearest port, and there was no doctor on board, Mr. Hodgson experienced a long period of excruciating agony, and, in fact, thought that he was dying.
“HE TRIED TO GRASP THE SAIL—MISSED IT—AND REALIZED THAT HE WAS FALLING!”
What doctoring he did get was of an exceedingly rough and ready description, and was provided by one of the fo’c’s’le hands who had at one time had his own leg fractured, and on the strength of this claimed to know all about broken bones. It may have been that he was specially gifted in this respect, or it may have been sheer luck, but he certainly made a very fair job of it, all things considered.
Three weeks later, when Her Majesty reached St. Pierre, after an exceptionally long passage out of ninety-eight days, a medical man was sent for at once, who was not at all satisfied with the methods of his unprofessional rival. In fact, he announced that Mr. Hodgson would never be able to walk again, and advised the immediate amputation of his injured limb. Mr. Hodgson, however, decided that if he was to return home at all he would do so as a whole man, and flatly refused his consent. Fearing that the operation would be performed against his will, he declined, for days together, to touch any of the food offered him, in case it should have been “doctored” and he would wake up minus his leg. After Her Majesty had unloaded her cargo and taken another on board she sailed for home, and Mr. Hodgson went with her, but his troubles were by no means over, as the ship foundered in a gale and the crew took to the boats. As may well be imagined, Mr. Hodgson, in his enfeebled state, was in no fit condition for such an experience, and during the eight days’ journey in open boats that followed until the island of Santa Cruz was reached his sufferings were beyond description.
Mr. Hodgson went to sea for a year or two after his accident, but as the unskilled treatment of his amateur doctor was not entirely successful the bones of his leg were never properly set. Although the limb was sound enough for all ordinary purposes it was not strong enough to stand the continual strain of a seafaring career, and he accordingly made a fresh start in life as an artist, with what success is well known to our readers.
Mr. Hodgson says, “Until you have known me quite a long time you would not think that I was any the worse for my accident,” and as he fell over a hundred feet the wonder is that he was not killed on the spot. His escape from death was, in fact, little short of miraculous.
Mr. Norman H. Hardy’s record of travel is certainly as extensive as that of any artist whose work appears in the pages of The Wide World—or of any other magazine, for that matter. He was for seven years in Australia as the special artist of the Sydney Mail, and in the course of his wanderings has visited the South Sea Islands, New Guinea, Solomon Islands, New Hebrides, New Britain, China, Siam, India, and Egypt. His latest trip was on a roving commission to Central Africa during the early part of this year.
MR. NORMAN H. HARDY, WHO WAS ATTACKED BY A MOB OF INFURIATED SHEEP-SHEARERS ON STRIKE IN AUSTRALIA.
From a Photograph.
While in Australia Mr. Hardy met with some exciting experiences in connection with the New South Wales sheep-shearing strike in 1894, one which he will always remember as an occasion on which he was lucky to escape with his life. The strike was brought about by the union sheep-shearers, who objected to the employment of “free” or non-union men who were willing to work at a lower rate of pay, and caused wild excitement throughout New South Wales. The unionists struck work in a body and resorted to “picketing,” threatening the free labourers with violence if they persisted in carrying on their work. This affected many thousand men, as in New South Wales sheep-shearing is a trade of such importance that the welfare of the entire State was involved. To such a height did the excitement rise that the bad feeling between the opposing factions grew to alarming proportions, resulting in serious loss of life, and the country rang with reports and rumours of outrages perpetrated by the incensed unionists. The seriousness of the situation was such that the late Sir George Dibbs, then Premier of New South Wales, issued a proclamation in which he threatened to call out the military to quell the riots.
Burrowang station, in New South Wales, was regarded as the stronghold of the unionists, and it was recognised that on the turn of affairs there the ultimate issue of the strike depended.
Mr. Hardy was accordingly dispatched to Burrowang as the special correspondent of the Sydney Mail, making the journey in the company of some forty “free” men, under the charge of a Mr. Campbell. The men were a very mixed lot, drawn from all classes of society, and were sent out by a non union pastoral organization to take the places of the shearers who were on strike.
A special train had been chartered, and as, at six o’clock in the evening, the closely-packed cars left Sydney it was evident that there was a feeling of uneasiness among the passengers, for it was well known that the unionists were in strong force at various points along the line. Some of the younger men had undertaken the journey from pure love of adventure, but the older men were mostly out-of-luck miners and shearers who were genuinely in search of work. While on their way to Sydney a number of them had already come into contact, at Circular Quay railway station, with some of the unionists, and a fierce fight had ensued; this fact undoubtedly helped to increase the alarm of the rest of the men in the train.
At Emu Plains station, where the train halted, the less resolute were seized with an attack of panic, and had literally to be driven back into the cars when the train was ready to start again, where they sat in gloomy apprehension of danger as they approached nearer and nearer their destination.
The journey from Sydney to Burrowang is made, in the ordinary course, by train to Forbes, and thence by horse-buggies. But as at the latter place an angry mob of unionists was awaiting the arrival of the “free labourers’” train, it was decided to resort to strategy to avoid the risk of an ugly fight between the two parties.
Accordingly, although, as a blind, coaches and mounted police were ordered to meet the special train at Forbes, the driver was instructed to stop at the small station of Droubalgie, where a second contingent of four-horsed cars, also guarded by mounted police, were waiting to convey the men to Burrowang, thus avoiding the unwelcome attentions of the rioters at Forbes, whose anger, when they found they had been outwitted, speedily brought them into conflict with the police.
The men were in a tremendous state of excitement as the train drew up at the station, and many of them were afraid to take their seats in the buggies; but at length, when it was seen that there were no union men in sight, Mr. Campbell and Mr. Hardy were able to induce them to take their seats. There was scarcely room for all, and the cars were uncomfortably crowded, but Mr. Hardy, owing to the fact that he was popularly supposed to be a detective from Sydney, was given a box-seat. Just as they were starting two horsemen, who turned out to be union men who had got wind of the “blacklegs’” arrival, appeared on the scene. They tried hard to induce the “free” men to join them, but without success, and finally galloped off to Forbes, after having announced their intention of informing the waiting crowds of the arrival of the train at Droubalgie and bringing them in pursuit. The buggies containing Mr. Hardy’s party thereupon started off with all speed, led by the mounted police. The going was bad, frequently over long stretches of quagmire and marsh land, occasional stoppages being necessary when one or other of the coaches became bogged, sinking axle-deep in the mud and requiring terrific exertion to move it.
THE COACHES ON THE ROAD FROM DROUBALGIE TO BURROWANG, GUARDED BY MOUNTED POLICE.
From a Photograph.
Another uncomfortable night was spent in the bush, the men camping out by the side of the coaches, strict silence being enforced in order not to attract the attention of the unionists. Following an early and meagre breakfast a start was made, and after a journey of some hours the men became easier in their minds, as it was thought that the pursuit had been abandoned. Soon after, however, as the coaches emerged from a belt of timber and scrub into open ground, it was seen that a number of unionists were waiting for them. The strikers were all mounted and at once charged, yelling fiercely, and started pelting the coaches with stones. It looked as though there was bound to be serious trouble, but the mounted police, with characteristic promptitude, drew their carbines and prepared to open fire.
The attitude of the troopers had its effect on the strikers, who, after a slight show of resistance, drew off and allowed the coaches to proceed on their way. Some few of them, however, had managed to get to close quarters, and hard knocks were exchanged, resulting in injuries to both sides, happily none of them severe.
As it turned out, this was the only real excitement that occurred during the journey, and a few hours later Mr. Hardy and the rest of the party made their entry into Burrowang.
A meeting was at once held at which both sides were well represented, Mr. Hardy attending in the ranks of the non-unionists. The conference provoked a considerable amount of bad feeling, and was broken up in wild disorder by the strikers when they found they could not induce the new arrivals to join them. The presence of the police, however, prevented any serious fighting, only one man being badly injured.
THE COACH ON WHICH MR. HARDY WAS RIDING WHEN HE WAS ATTACKED BY THE STRIKERS.
From a Photograph.
Mr. Hardy soon discovered that he was a marked man, as it was thought that he was either a detective or else an official of the non-unionist organization, and for the next few days it was only by seeking police protection that he avoided bodily harm at the hands of the mob. The whole place was in a suppressed state of excitement owing to the attitude of the strikers, who, it was evident, were liable to break out at any moment, and neither life nor property was regarded as safe. Several attempts were made to burn down the wool-sheds, but happily they were in every case discovered before serious damage was done. Under police supervision the new men started work, but it was at once apparent that they were, in most cases, absolutely unfitted for the work of sheep-shearing, and as the season was by now well advanced skilled labour was soon at a premium. The situation was critical, and at length the union men were approached and asked to resume work at their own terms. This offer they unanimously refused unless every “free” man was discharged.
At length, having treated the strike from every possible point of view, Mr. Hardy decided to return to Sydney, and accordingly booked his place on the next mail-coach running to Forbes, as it was not possible to get a conveyance to Droubalgie on his way back. The strike was still at its height, and the route to Forbes and that town itself were strongly held by the unionists. Mr. Hardy was prepared for an exciting journey, as all coaches were subjected to the closest scrutiny, and he himself was suspected of non-unionist sympathies.
When the Forbes coach drew up at Burrowang for the mails, and the coachman discovered that he was to have as a passenger Mr. Hardy, who had taken an active part in the strike, he was in an exceedingly perturbed state of mind. In spite of his fears, however, the start was made quietly enough.
The day’s journey through bush and scrub proved uneventful, and towards evening the coach drew up at a small bush station, where a halt was made for the night.
In the morning three more passengers put in an appearance—all non-union men—and also a new driver, who was to take the reins as far as Forbes, where, the latest report had it, the strikers were in an extremely dangerous mood. The new driver, when he had taken stock of his passengers, appeared to be even more terror-stricken than his predecessor. He warned them that there was likely to be serious trouble, as the only practicable road took them close to the unionist camp just outside Forbes. He was also particularly anxious to know whether any of the party possessed unionist passes. These were simply small scraps of paper scrawled over in a peculiar manner in blue pencil; but, as they enabled their holders to pass through the camps without molestation, they were extremely useful, and Mr. Hardy remembered with regret that he had been offered one at Burrowang. Attaching little importance to the offer at the time, however, he had declined it.
As the coach neared Forbes two mounted union men were seen, who on the approach of the vehicle at once turned about and galloped back, with the object, it was thought, of informing the strikers of its arrival. Their action proved too much for two of the passengers, who promptly insisted on being put down. The journey was then resumed with Mr. Hardy and the driver on the box, and the remaining passenger inside, cowering under the seat.
As the camp came in sight an outburst of shouting gave ample proof of the hostile attitude of the strikers, a number of whom at once made a rush to meet the coach.
A short distance along the road was a bridge spanning a small creek, and at this point a strong guard of strikers was posted to hold up all traffic. On previous occasions their method of procedure had been to haul out any passengers who were without passes, rob them of everything they possessed, and, after treating them with the utmost brutality, set them to work in a menial capacity about the camp. The driver of the coach, when he found that he was in actual danger, plucked up his courage and, lashing his horses into a gallop, made a dash for the bridge at a furious pace.
Mr. Hardy was immediately recognised by the foremost of the strikers, who, with hoarse cries of rage, shouted to the men on the bridge to stop the coach at all costs.
The terrific rate at which the horses were travelling showed plainly that it was the driver’s intention to ride down any opposition, and this action provoked such an outburst of fury among the mob that it was perfectly clear that if they did manage to stop the coach both he and Mr. Hardy, even if they escaped with their lives, would be treated with savage violence.
Mr. Hardy’s presence on the coach—it will be remembered that the men suspected him of being a detective—had the same effect on the strikers as a red rag on a bull, and with an ungovernable fury of rage and at imminent risk of their lives they literally hurled themselves at the horses’ heads, meanwhile calling on the driver, with the vilest imprecations, to halt.
By way of reply the Jehu applied the whip to his team still more vigorously, yelling at the same time at the top of his voice that anyone who dared to stop the Royal Mail would get ten years for his trouble. His threat, however, was ignored, and presently the sharp crack of a revolver rang out. Mr. Hardy felt a bullet whiz past his head, missing him by inches. The shot was followed the next instant by another, and it was only the celerity with which he ducked down to avoid the bullet that saved his life.
The sound of the firing caused the frightened horses to rear and kick, knocking down the men who had seized their bridles and almost stopping the coach.
The check, however, was only momentary, and as the horses plunged forward again some of the more excited strikers, who, with wild curses, had endeavoured to climb the side of the coach to get at Mr. Hardy, were flung back into the roadway.
The panic-stricken horses in their mad struggles had dragged the coach across the road, and nearly over the side of the bridge into the creek below, but the driver, applying his whip freely, soon had his team under control again, and, scattering the crowd to right and left, the flying coach crossed the bridge, followed by a volley of sticks, bottles, and stones. Mr. Hardy, crouching low over the seat, was struck with such violence by a brick on the left shoulder that he at first thought it was fractured, but happily he escaped further injury. With the horses maddened and excited, the coach dashed at a furious pace along the short stretch of road to Forbes, where it drew up at a small hotel. The coachman was white to the lips from the strain, and the inside passenger alighted trembling with fright, while Mr. Hardy confesses that he felt more than a little shaky.
A large crowd soon collected, anxious to learn the cause of the excitement, and the hotel-keeper, when he heard the driver’s story, promptly dragged Mr. Hardy indoors, telling him, if he valued his life, to keep out of sight. The presence of the police prevented an attack being made on the place, and when things had quietened down a little our artist was able to slip out unnoticed. After another coach ride, this time a peaceful one, he made his way back by rail to Sydney.
In the end the unionists gained the day at Burrowang, going back to work on their own terms, and thus virtually ending the strike throughout New South Wales.
“THE FLYING COACH CROSSED THE BRIDGE, FOLLOWED BY A VOLLEY OF STICKS, STONES, AND BOTTLES.”
Mr. Inglis Sheldon-Williams is an artist with a grievance. He complains that, although he has travelled a great deal and roughed it in various parts of the world—and for so young a man his record is remarkable—he has not met with a single first-class adventure of a really hair-raising nature. That he ought to have done so is an obvious fact, he says, and, indeed, on several occasions he has been perilously near as much excitement as would last any man a lifetime. In fact, it may be said that he has been out looking for trouble most of his life, and he is to be accounted lucky in that he has never found it.
Early in his career he emigrated to Canada, where for some years he lived the rough-and-tumble life and endured the manifold hardships that fall to the lot of a farmer in the back-woods. At the call of art, however, he returned to England to study, but with the longing for adventure strong upon him he later enlisted in the Imperial Yeomanry and took part in the South African Campaign, where he saw some considerable amount of fighting.
When the war between Japan and Russia broke out, Mr. Sheldon-Williams was early in the field as the special artist for the Sphere, and was in China and Manchuria during the earlier stages of the campaign. He has also visited India and attended the Durbar.
MR. INGLIS SHELDON-WILLIAMS, SOME OF WHOSE VARIED EXPERIENCES ABROAD ARE HERE RELATED.
From a Photograph.
On numerous occasions he has congratulated himself that he was at last placed in a critical situation, only to finish up with an anti-climax.
When he was in Canada, for instance, he lost himself on the prairie while in charge of a team of oxen. A terrific blizzard came on, and, as the snow was absolutely blinding and the temperature many degrees below freezing-point, all sorts of unpleasant things might easily have happened. Mr. Sheldon-Williams had visions of wandering about for days in the snow, starving and frostbitten, with a mere possibility of rescue when he was in the last stages of exhaustion. But although he was lost, his oxen were not, and they took him safely home.
On another occasion he attempted to rescue a duck from the depths of a well, but fell in himself—into sixteen feet of water. Any other man placed in this situation would have been drowned without any bother at all. But Mr. Sheldon-Williams had not been in the water more than a few minutes before he was discovered and hauled out by the united efforts of his mother and sister.
It was just the same in South Africa—no luck at all, simply a lot of dramatic situations which fizzled out miserably. On one occasion Mr. Sheldon-Williams’s company occupied a farm-house near Johannesburg, and the very night on which he was absent, having ridden into town to deposit some money in the bank, was the one selected by the Boers to attack the place. His bed was close up against a window through which the Boers fired volley after volley. Had Mr. Sheldon-Williams occupied it as usual, he would undoubtedly have been shot!
On another occasion he got leave of absence from a patrol, as the neighbourhood was supposed to be clear of the enemy, in order to do some sketching. The patrol was, of course, ambushed, and the man who took his place shot dead.
Another piece of particularly bad luck occurred when Mr. Sheldon-Williams’s troop was attacking Klip River Kopje. The Boers had actually been seen on the ridge, and in the morning he was one of the men selected for scouting purposes. As he rode up the hill it certainly looked as though he had a fine chance of figuring in the next list of killed and wounded. But, as Mr. Sheldon-Williams says, “It was not my fault that the Boers had left overnight!”
At Diamond Hill it was just the same. A mere handful of Yeomanry, Mr. Sheldon-Williams among them, held an exposed position throughout the night in the face of the enemy, determined to do or die. As it happened they did neither, for the next day they were told that there had been an armistice on all the time.
Before Pretoria Mr. Sheldon-Williams was in the firing-line, which was strung out on the left of the advance. The Boer shell-fire had set the grass alight, depriving them of anything like adequate cover, and in the open the rifle-fire from the Boers was nothing more or less than a leaden hailstorm, but he was not even wounded. Presently the order to withdraw was given, but, having fallen asleep, he failed to notice it, and was the last man to leave. As he thus offered himself as a suitable target for a little individual sniping, a Boer marksman took careful aim at him and fired. He was a remarkably good shot, but, needless to say, he missed Mr. Sheldon-Williams, who at that precise moment stooped down to pick up a discarded rifle, the bullet passing close over his head! All things considered, therefore, Mr. Sheldon-Williams has certainly received exceptional treatment at the hands of Dame Fortune, but so long as she continues to serve him in the same way it is difficult to see that he has any just cause for complaint.
Hunting the Hippopotamus.
By Lieutenant Paul Durand.
The hippopotamus—that enormous pachydermatous creature whose shape reminds us of the antediluvian monsters—was formerly met with over a large part of Africa, but it has been so pitilessly pursued by hunters that it is every day becoming scarcer and scarcer. Within a hundred years, perhaps, the hippopotamus will be numbered among the vanished curiosities of the animal world. In this article a French sportsman describes his exciting experiences while in quest of “river horses,” and furnishes a number of very impressive photographs.
MALE AND FEMALE HIPPOPOTAMI ON THE BANKS OF AN AFRICAN RIVER.
From a Photograph.
Not many months ago the habitués of the Jardin des Plantes, the Paris “Zoo,” were much astonished to notice that one of their favourites—Jack, the hippopotamus—displayed signs of unwonted irritation. The change in the animal’s temper had been quite sudden. Hitherto Jack had been extraordinarily docile; now, whenever it became necessary to make him change his quarters, either for the purpose of cleaning the cage or to show him off to better advantage to visitors, he yielded with manifest surliness.
Then there came a day when the keeper in whose charge Jack had been for a great number of years found it quite impossible to induce the animal to leave his bath for the open enclosure, beyond the bars of which a score or two of nurses and children were eagerly waiting to feast their eyes upon him. The more insistent the keeper grew, the more did it become evident that the great, unwieldy beast was determined to try conclusions with its human tormentor. On his side the keeper was equally obstinate, but blandishment being clearly of no avail he resorted to more convincing measures.
Poor fellow, he little realized his danger! To the unutterable horror of those present the animal’s enormous jaws suddenly flew apart, disclosing a cavernous mouth and throat. By the time those jaws had closed again the unfortunate keeper had ceased to be numbered among the living!
Appeased, apparently, by this act of savage ferocity, Jack has since been as docile as he ever was. His diminutive, befogged brain had, no doubt, suddenly shown him, as in the mirage of fever, some dimly recognisable vision of the luxuriant African landscapes he was eternally severed from. He may—who knows?—have thought of other creatures like himself, lazily enjoying existence in sun-warmed, muddy streams, browsing at will on unspeakably luscious herbage. Then, perhaps, an illuminating flash of lightning rage showed him instantaneously the long tale of wrongs inflicted upon his dull-witted race by the white man. Because his ivory is finer-grained than that of the elephant and because it does not so easily become yellow, because his hide—cut into narrow strips—makes superexcellent sticks, not an instant’s respite from persecution is accorded to the poor “river horse.” Pitilessly is he harried and massacred, the hunter’s rifle vomiting forth a constant stream of bullets—“dum-dum,” explosive, or steel-pointed—to pierce the massive, narrow skull.
As a consequence of this ceaseless warfare the rivers are so rapidly becoming depopulated that the day cannot be far distant when, like the American buffalo, the African hippopotamus will be nothing but a memory. Possibly the domesticated “dark continent” of to-morrow will piously preserve in some park, national or international, a model herd of the only surviving representatives of this once prolific race. Learned men will then bring forward convincing arguments to prove the propriety of favouring the propagation of such useful animals; but the useful animals themselves, wearied out by the last years of their persecuted existence, will probably refuse to breed. Already the hippopotamus is scarce enough to make us realize some of the good that is in him. The knowledge has come too late; the “river horse,” it seems, is doomed to disappear. Under these circumstances, perhaps, the recital of my own recent experiences while hunting hippopotami may be found of interest.
To the African traveller the hippopotamus is a species of game particularly desirable, for its ivory and its hide are both valuable, while the not inconsiderable danger involved in its pursuit provides the delicious emotion without which every kind of hunting is tame and insipid. Moreover, the obligation under which the leader of the expedition lies to feed his servants and carriers adequately makes one of these enormous beasts, twelve feet long or so and disproportionately wide, a perfect godsend. Not only does the hippopotamus furnish a formidable amount of meat, but that meat has the inestimable merit of keeping fresh much longer than any other, principally owing to the fact that flies seem to have an insurmountable horror for it. I must admit that for a long time I thoroughly sympathized with the flies! Alive, the hippopotamus has a very peculiar odour, somewhat resembling musk, which discloses the presence of the animal from afar, when he happens to be to windward of one. In the flesh of the dead animal this odour—or the taste of it, rather—persists, and is much appreciated by the natives, though Europeans take a long time to get accustomed to it; some are never able to support it.
Once, when I was in the neighbourhood of the Chari River, my men informed me that a herd of hippopotami were in possession of a series of ponds not far from our camp. I immediately marched in their direction. As we approached the water we heard the trumpeting of the leader of the herd, and almost simultaneously caught sight of him. Erect on a small bank, his formidable mouth widely opened, he was uttering that characteristic neighing sound in which there are notes that remind one both of the lowing of a cow and the roar of a lion. On the surface of the ponds, moving quickly from place to place, were to be seen what appeared to be large balks of some kind of dark wood; these were the muzzles of the remaining members of the herd.
I succeeded in getting round the water unobserved to a spot where I was concealed from the animals by a small islet which occupied the middle of the pond. To this island I transported myself by means of a small and primitive canoe, which two of my men had brought on the chance of its being required.
By this time the old male had taken to the water again. The whole herd were now vaguely alarmed, for from my place of ambush I could obtain only fleeting glimpses every now and then of a muzzle momentarily showing itself on the surface of the water—just long enough for the animal to take breath—and then disappearing.
After waiting some time I grew impatient and began to salute each of these distant apparitions with a shot from my Express rifle. Nothing, however, is so deceptive as to shoot across water, especially when situated, as I then was, facing the sun; and I was not successful in lodging even one bullet in the targets I aimed at.
I then made up my mind to lie low for such time as might be necessary to reassure the animals. I had to wait some considerable time—certainly more than an hour; but finally my patience was rewarded. The old male, still swimming, was actually coming in my direction. His head, carried well clear of the water, presented a marvellous target at a distance of about twenty-five feet from me—a regular tyro’s shot. And yet something or other made my hand tremble, and as I pulled the trigger I realized that I had missed!
I also realized more than this. In order to make the effect of the ball the surer I had employed my largest gun, and I had given it a full elephant charge. The shock of the recoil was so tremendous that I was thrown on my back several paces away, with a feeling as if my shoulder had been put out of joint. When I got on my feet once more all the natives were shrieking with laughter, for this misadventure to their white master appeared to them highly diverting.
A GLANCE AT THIS TRULY FORMIDABLE PAIR OF JAWS WILL ENABLE THE READER TO REALIZE HOW IT IS THAT THESE GREAT BRUTES ARE ABLE TO DEMOLISH CANOES SO EASILY.
From a Photograph.
Meanwhile, in the pond a terrible scene was in progress. Maddened with rage and pain, the old hippopotamus was swimming furiously, first in one direction, then in another. Now he would mount on a sandbank, now plunge with a tremendous splash into the water, which was reddened with his blood. He was seeking an enemy on whom he might be avenged, and blindly pursued his fellows under the water. The ball had struck him in the chest, whereas the only immediately vital spot in the hippopotamus is situated just beneath the eye, the ball thence penetrating the brain. My bullet, though it had not killed him outright, must have caused terrible internal injuries, for very soon I saw him turn completely over several times, displaying successively above the surface of the water his head and his feet. Then, all at once, he sank and did not again reappear.
THE ALARM! A BOAT HAS APPEARED IN THE DISTANCE, AND THE GIGANTIC LEADER OF THE HERD ROARS OUT HIS WARNING.
From a Photograph.
A DEAD HIPPOPOTAMUS WHICH HAS BEEN DRAGGED IN TO THE RIVER BANK.
From a Photograph.
A dead hippopotamus invariably sinks to the bottom, and it is only after an interval which varies between two and eight hours that the body rises and floats on the surface. For this reason, if you kill a hippopotamus in a river the current of which is at all rapid, you must, in nine cases out of ten, give up all hope of ever recovering your quarry. The carcass may be carried a great distance under the water, reappearing at the surface miles away, where it furnishes a providential feast to the native inhabitants on the banks, who call down ironical blessings upon the infallible rifle of the white man.
In the present instance there was no necessity for me to trouble about the carcass, which by the following morning, if not that very evening, I knew I should find floating placidly on the surface, waiting to be hauled ashore. In any case it would have been sheer madness to try to recover it at that moment, as the pond was infested with crocodiles.
THE HUNTER DRIFTING DOWN STREAM IN A PRIMITIVE NATIVE CANOE.
From a Photograph.
That day every member of the unfortunate herd—there were six in all—fell a prey to my rifle; the massacre occupied about two hours in all. When I returned on the morrow half-a-dozen enormous carcasses lay stretched out among the aquatic herbs, some floating on the surface of the water, others stranded on the banks.
It was not without difficulty that I persuaded my men to carry out the ropes necessary for hauling in the carcasses that were out of reach, the pond, as I have said, being full of crocodiles. One of their number, however, at last volunteered to do the job. While he was engaged in his somewhat perilous undertaking the rest of the natives set up a chorus of the most atrocious howling it is possible to imagine, meanwhile thrashing the surface of the water, creating by one means and another so discordant a concert that the saurians, terrified no doubt out of their wits, must have sought refuge in the most hidden depths, for we saw nothing of them.
To cut up a hippopotamus is no easy task. In some places the hide is almost two and a half inches thick, and before you have got through a hand’s-breadth your knife has completely lost its edge, and requires to be resharpened. The head and the feet are put on one side to be preserved as trophies of the chase, while the remainder of the flesh is cut into long, thin strips which, after they have been dried by hanging them on the tree-branches, will keep good for a very long time. The ivory of the teeth and tusks, which is of very fine quality, used to be employed almost exclusively in the manufacture of false teeth; nowadays it is turned to all the purposes of ordinary ivory.
As for the hide, cut into strips it is made into sticks, which are as good defensive weapons as one could wish to possess. Treated with oil they become as transparent as tortoiseshell, and look quite pretty. Out of hippopotamus-hide bullock-drivers likewise make thongs for their whips which are positively everlasting, and fetch, relatively speaking, quite a good price.
In this particular expedition the only trouble I had was that involved in shooting the animals. Things do not always go off so smoothly, however, and hunting hippopotamus may turn out to be a more dangerous sport than almost any other.
On one occasion, when we were descending the course of the Chari in canoes, we perceived a number of the great beasts in the river, playing some clumsy sort of game among themselves and throwing up in the air jets of water, somewhat similar to those ejected by whales through their blow-holes. We could distinctly hear the animals’ powerful breathing.
Carried away by the nearness of the game, I forgot entirely how dangerous the pursuit of the hippopotamus may become when the hunter is in a boat.
Meanwhile we were advancing steadily, and every time a huge frontal bone or a giant muzzle appeared above the level of the water I pulled trigger. There were frequently quite long intervals, for the hippopotamus is able to remain over three minutes under water without coming up for breath.
Presently, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a female and her little one on the river bank; then I saw her take to the water. My attention, however, was riveted on a spot in the river where I had seen an old male plunge. Every instant I expected him to reappear.
Suddenly, ere I fully realized what was occurring, I found myself projected upwards in the air with incredible violence. Before I descended I had time to see a gigantic jaw open wide, and then close with a snap on the unfortunate canoe which followed mine. An instant later I was in the water, striking out madly for the bank, almost persuaded that I felt the sharp teeth of a crocodile nipping off a thigh or an arm. I was fortunate enough to reach the shore, however, without mishap. Then we called over the roll. At first I supposed nobody was missing, but we soon perceived that our number was one short. We never saw the poor fellow again. Doubtless he had been injured when the jaws of the hippopotamus closed over his canoe, and was thus unable to reach the bank. At that moment, probably, a crocodile was devouring his body at the bottom of the river.
By dint of a few questions I was able to piece together what had happened. The female, thinking to defend her young, had thrown herself upon the canoe behind mine, and almost simultaneously the old male had emerged from the water with irresistible violence beneath my own craft, pitching me upwards. It was a very narrow escape, all things considered, and I can assure you that, for the rest of that day at least, we left the poor “river horses” in peace.
The Tale the Doctor Told.
A CHRISTMAS STORY OF THE WESTERN PLAINS.
Written and Illustrated by Stanley L. Wood.
Concerning this narrative, Mr. Wood writes: “I was a boy at the time, living with my parents on the plains, the nearest point of civilization being Fort Hayes, now Hayes City, Kansas. The doctor had occasion to ride out to our place, and told us of his adventure, and the sequel, much as I have set it down.”
It was Christmas Eve.
“Hear that wind?” said Dr. McDonnell. “It sounds like a pack of wolves, the way it howls; and the snow means to keep on coming.”
“Yes, and stayin’,” answered the cow-puncher, nodding gravely at the stove.
“Not a nice night to go walking,” ventured the tenderfoot; “in fact, I think I’d rather be here. It’d take a bit to get me out—and Christmas Eve, too. As you say, doctor, the wind does sound like wolves; and no doubt if one were out they’d find the wolves—or the wolves find them.”
“No doubt whatever, young feller,” remarked the puncher, dryly. “Wolves are out this weather for grub; and when they’re out for grub they’re out on a business trip, dead sure.”
The doctor bit the end off a fresh cigar.
“Do you boys want a story?” said he.
“Go ahead, doc,” replied the cow-puncher, proffering a match. And the doctor, after lighting up, went ahead to the following effect.
Well, boys, it’s a long time ago now—a Christmas Eve, too—way back in the ’seventies, when things on the prairies were very different. It was usual in those days to get a brush with the Utes or the Cheyennes pretty regularly once or twice a month.
The twenty-third of December was a bright, sunny day, with not more than three or four inches of snow on the plains. Over the thin snow-crust galloped Jimmie Dink—“Darky Dink” we called him, because of his swarthy hair and skin.
“Doc,” said he, pulling his broncho up short before me, “Wolfie Jim’s about done. Can’t you go to him? He’s ’most busted up.”
Poor old Wolfie! I knew why.
Some time previously he had run in among his dogs, which were attacking a timber wolf they had turned up on the creek bank. He intended to knife it, as he had done many a time before, but the old fellow, maybe, was not so agile as formerly, and things had gone a bit wrong. Anyhow, he’d knifed the wolf all right, but the wolf bit his foot badly, and Wolfie doctored it in his own peculiar manner with unlimited bad whisky, taken both outside and in. Well, the foot didn’t heal, and Wolfie couldn’t understand it.
He was one of the old fur-cap-and-buckskin-shirt trappers who never consulted even a medicine-man, let alone a white doctor. I’d stopped at his shack once or twice and got a liking for the quaint old fellow, so I told Darky to get one of the boys to put a saddle on my old horse Pete while I got my “murder-bag,” as they called my medicine outfit, and was soon ready for Wolfie and his trouble.
Away loped Pete over the beautiful glistening prairie; I could have found my way to Wolfie’s with my eyes shut.
It occurred to me soon that I was foolish not to have brought a heavier overcoat, but I knew if I didn’t start on my return journey before sundown I could either stay with old Wolf or borrow something to make me warm; besides, although it was December, it was one of those prairie days that would almost fool a wise man into the belief that it was spring.
I shall never forget the shock I received as I pushed the door of the little hut open. I had started with my case full of all I thought I should want—even to vitriol, in case of a last resource. But Wolfie was beyond my skill. He lay stretched out on his blankets, dead, with his two dead hounds beside him. There was a half-empty bottle in his left hand and a big six-shooter in his right. There were three cartridges in the revolver and three empty shells. The old man and both hounds had each been killed with a bullet through the head.
“HE LAY STRETCHED OUT ON HIS BLANKETS, DEAD, WITH HIS TWO DEAD HOUNDS BESIDE HIM.”
I examined the injured foot and understood the whole thing.
Wolfie had doctored himself, but the wound had got worse and worse, and at last the old fellow, in awful, never-ending pain, had drunk himself half-dead and completed the work with his trigger finger.
Meanwhile the weather had been growing gradually colder, and the wind started to moan as I fastened the door from the outside, after quitting that abode of death. The sky, too, was rapidly darkening, and Pete shook his head up and down and stamped uneasily.
Mounting, I rode off; but I had not been going long when, away in the distance, I heard the dismal, long-drawn howl of a prairie wolf, then another, and another. Not till that moment did it flash upon me what an all-round fool I was.
I had brought no revolver with me. It had started to snow, evening was drawing in, and there were those gaunt brutes in the distance—yet I had no protection against either the weather or the wolves. I touched up old Pete, and we started to travel fast for home.
We had not gone more than a mile farther before a real, genuine blizzard sprang up. How it came down! Waves, absolute waves of snow, whirred, cut, and beat about my face, while the wind howled and shrieked dismally.
Then I did the worst, most foolish thing a man could have done. I tried to guide old Pete! I steered him, and, though Pete knew better, he obeyed; and so, between a good old horse and a fool of a young man, we made a fine mess of it. We got lost, tangled up, with the snow whirling about us in sheets. Every minute it got deeper and thicker, and at last poor old Pete staggered, tried vainly to right himself, fell over, and collapsed.
Try as I would I couldn’t get him up, and—well, I fear I lost my nerve, what with the blinding snow and the distant howl of those wretched wolves.
As the snow beat down upon me, piling up pitilessly over the now stiffening form of the poor old horse, I thought it time to move on. To stay where I was meant being frozen to death, to go on might mean the same; but there was just a chance, and I stumbled forward and took the chance.
Heaven only knows how long I ploughed and pushed through those awful snow-drifts with the falling flakes eddying about me in clouds; I lost all account of time. I went stumbling blindly forward until I seemed not to be myself, but just some machine without feeling or hope, mechanically pulling one foot before the other, and groping through the freezing dark.
I was just beginning to experience a drowsy, comfortable feeling, when—bump!—the little sense left in me was nearly knocked out as my head struck against something hard.
That deadly, comfortable feeling left me at once. I felt about in the darkness and touched boards. It was a cabin! With my half-frozen hands I hammered at the woodwork, and I shall never forget my feelings as a door opened and I was pulled in out of the storm, the door banging to behind me.
I couldn’t speak for a minute, and my eyes were blurred coming in from the darkness and snow, but when they got accustomed to what little light there was I didn’t feel I wanted to say much.
Before me was a giant. He must have stood a good six-foot-six, but all I could see of his face was his eyes. He was masked in what was called in those days a “storm-cap,” which completely hid the face of the wearer, showing only the eyes. A long, heavy overcoat, with collar upturned, reached to his ankles.
“Having arrived here, stranger,” he remarked, in an unpleasant, metallic sort of voice, with a half laugh, “and it now being near Christmas Eve, I’d be interested in knowing how you managed to bump up against this building.”
This was not the sort of greeting one would have expected under the circumstances, and the man’s language did not smack of the prairie, but I was too weak after my exertions and too thankful to be out of the storm to notice trifles, and so I told him as briefly as possible that I was lost, and should be grateful if he would give me shelter for the night.
“Shelter?” said he. “Shelter? Yes, why not? All the shelter a man could want. I wouldn’t turn a dog out such a night like this. Yes, stranger, you can sleep here to-night, nice and quiet. I’ve nothing to give you to eat, but there’s whisky here. Being nearly Christmas Eve, drink up, and then—go up!”
As he spoke he poured whisky from a demi-john into two tin mugs and picked up a lantern. Then, for the first time, I saw there was a rough ladder, up which he went to a room above.
Now all shacks, dug-outs, and cabins I had seen hitherto were of only one storey. There was something uncanny about the man and the place, and tired and knocked up as I was I did not drink the whisky; I just wetted my lips with it as my host’s feet clumped around above, and ere he descended I carefully poured the contents of the tin cup into the ramshackle stove.
“Now, up you go and sleep the sleep you’ve asked for,” said he, when he came down. “A merry Christmas to you!” With that he tossed off his whisky at a gulp.
Up I went through the rough opening; it was not a trap-door, for there was no flap to shut down. I found myself in a kind of loft, in which was a wooden apology for a bed, heaped over with some evil-smelling blankets. All this I saw by the light of a guttering candle stuck in the neck of a cracked bottle. Though I was very, very weary, all thoughts of going to sleep went out of my head. I distrusted that sinister-looking fellow below.
Pulling my flask from my pocket, I look a long drink, and the neat spirit gradually warmed me. Then I sat down in the semi-darkness to think.
Suddenly an inspiration came to me. Taking out my medicine-case I quickly charged a syringe with whisky. This frail thing, in case of attack, was my only weapon, with the exception of the cracked bottle holding the candle.
As I crouched there in the attic there came crowding into my memory stories of lonely travellers lost on these plains who had left not even a button to tell how or where they had gone. There had been talk during the last month of at least three men, settlers near the Fort, who had mysteriously vanished, leaving not the faintest clue to their whereabouts. At first their disappearance had been put down to raiding parties of Utes, but careful scouting by some of the best men disproved this theory.
Why should these thoughts come to me now? I asked myself, uneasily. Could that villainous-looking giant below have had anything to do with the disappearances? Lying prone, I peered cautiously through the trap, striving to see what was going on below. Indistinctly I saw the big man fill his tin cup three times and drain it off, muttering the while. Then, struck by a sudden inspiration, I went back to the bed, pulled off my coats, and heaped them up in a bundle on the bed to resemble as much as possible a sleeping form. Next I took off my boots and hat and placed them also in such a position, partly covered with the blankets, as to suggest the idea that, worn out with fatigue, I had thrown myself down to sleep fully clothed. Then I blew out the light and, keeping the bottle in my hand, crept again to the opening by the ladder head.
What I saw made my blood, which was chilly already, go colder yet.
The big man was taking off his overcoat. He threw it to the floor, and from his waist detached a belt from which dangled a heavy revolver and a long bowie-knife. The latter he drew from its sheath, running his thumb caressingly along the edge; then he laid it on the table.
Crossing the room he returned with an iron bar about three feet long. I heard it ring as he dumped it down on the table near the knife.
Then, tossing off more whisky—this time from the demi-john—he snatched up the bar and lantern and unsteadily approached the ladder. So my half-formed suspicions were correct; he meant to murder me!
With my heart beating like a sledge-hammer, I silently crouched behind the bed.
Never, if I live to be a hundred, shall I forget the next few minutes. He emerged through the opening, tiptoed to the bed, swung up the bar, and with a dull thwack brought it down just where my head might have lain. Again and yet again he thrashed and beat the tumbled clothes. Then, as he paused, from my place of concealment I squirted the whisky from the syringe straight into his eyes. Dropping the bar, he staggered and rubbed at his eyes, swearing horribly. As he reeled, half blinded, I sprang up and brought the bottle down with all my strength on his head, at the same time giving him a sideways push that sent him crashing through the opening to the floor below.
“I SENT HIM CRASHING THROUGH THE OPENING TO THE FLOOR BELOW.”
I was trembling in every limb with excitement, but I managed to get my boots, hat, and coats on.
Then I cautiously descended. I had no doubt that the fall had killed him, but I felt no pity; it was either his life or mine. Greatly to my surprise, however, the giant was still breathing. He lay huddled up at the ladder-foot, with blood on and about him. I tied his hands with a rope, and then, turning him on his chest, cut away the back part of his flannel shirt collar with his own villainous bowie-knife. Next, taking the small phial of vitriol from my case, I spilt a few drops on the back of his bare neck. The awful burning partly restored his senses, and he moaned. I had no compunction, but proceeded to tear the visored cap from his head.
I have never seen such a fiendish face in all my wanderings! The lower part was covered with a thick jet-black beard and moustache, but the face, taken altogether, was that of a murderer—the most horrible, wolfish-looking visage I have ever gazed on. Like a cornered wolf, even as he slowly revived he struggled and snapped to break the cords that bound him, cursing savagely in his semi-drunken frenzy.
Many a man would have shot him out of hand with his own weapon; but I could not bring myself to that. I had left an indelible mark on him, however, that he would carry with him to the grave, and should we ever meet again there could be no disguising those awful eyes and his enormous proportions. But, unless I killed or disabled him, it was obviously unsafe to remain in the cabin. The storm had now ceased, so taking the villain’s revolver, and leaving him struggling to unfasten his bonds, I set out to try to find my way to the Fort, hoping against hope that I should soon sight some familiar landmark.
How long I blundered over the snow before I lost consciousness I do not know, but I remember it flashed upon me once that this was the dawn of Christmas Eve! Then I felt myself getting drowsier and drowsier.
When I recovered my senses it had to be explained to me how I came to be in bed back at my old quarters at Fort Hayes, minus two toes, which I had bequeathed to “Jack Frost” during my stroll over the snow-clad prairies.
A merciful Providence and three friendly Utes had found me and brought me in. If it had not been for Black Cloud, one of the three Indians, and a pretty big chief in his way, this story would never have been told. He was the means of saving my life, and I thankfully presented him with the big revolver I had taken from the rascal at the hut.
Guided by Black Cloud, some of the boys and scouts a few days later located the spot where the Indians had found me unconscious, slowly freezing to death. From there they hunted in all directions, and at last found the two-storeyed hut—empty.
It was miles from the way I ought to have taken when I left the trapper’s shack, which showed that trying to guide my poor old horse was the worst thing I could have done.
Later, when the weather broke and I was able to get about, I got two of the boys to ride over to the hut with me.
My tale had sent search-parties scouring the countryside to try to run the would-be murderer down, but they never got him. What made the settlers and the sheriff more than keen to catch him was the gruesome discovery the two scouts and I made at the hut—three male skeletons, with their skulls smashed in, roughly buried in the earth! I thought of the iron bar and shuddered at my narrow escape.
Three years after I happened to stroll into a crowded court-house in San Jaleta, Southern Texas. A man was on trial for the murder of a lonely rancher, and seemed likely to be acquitted, for the evidence was too slight to convict him. There was no doubt that the motive of the crime had been robbery; and there was no doubt, when I’d had a good look at the prisoner, as to who he was. He was clean-shaven now, but, nevertheless, I remembered those awful eyes. Making my way to the front, I asked permission to give evidence for the prosecution.
After I had told my story—although it took five men to master the prisoner—the sheriff at last laid bare the scar on the neck where my vitriol had branded him the night of the storm.
Some of the crowd in court were pretty well worked up over the manner in which the lonely ranchman had been done to death, and the tale I told did not help to calm them. That night the jail at San Jaleta was “held up” by an armed mob, and when the sun rose it shone down on the body of a giant dangling from a telegraph pole at the end of a lariat.
That’s my story, and every word of it is true. I am afraid it’s taken a bit long in the telling, but I never hear the wind howling and moaning on a Christmas Eve as it does to-night without thinking of that other Christmas Eve on the Kansas plains so many years ago.
