Oh, yes! I remember that camel-day—it’s never likely to die out of my memory, for never did I endure a worse experience nor a harder in all my sporting life. It promised to be a great duck-shoot on the famous “Laguna Grande”; but for me, at any rate, it began, continued, and ended in misery! At 3.30 A.M., on opening my eyes, I saw Bertie already silently astir—probably seeking quinine or other febrifuge, for we were “housed” (save the mark) in Clarita’s choza, a lethal mud-and reed-thatched hut many a mile out in the marisma. Nothing whatever lies within sight—nothing bar desolation of mud and stagnant waters, reeds, samphire, and BIRDS, relieved at intervals by the occasional and far-away view of a steamer’s funnel, navigating the Guadalquivír Sevillewards.
Well, we arose, looked at what was intended for breakfast, and groped for our steeds. I was to ride an old polo-pony named Bufalo, an evil-tempered veteran with a long-spoilt “mouth” that ever resented the Spanish curb. Cold and empty we rode for two long hours in the dark, always following the leader since otherwise inevitable loss must ensue—splosh, splosh, through deep mud and deeper water, never stopping, always stumbling, slipping, slithering onwards. I feared it would never end; and, in fact, it never did—that is, the bog. For when I was finally told “Abajo” (which I understood to mean “get down”), and to squat in a miry place so much like the rest of the swamp that it didn’t seem to matter much where it really was—well, it was then only 6 A.M. and horribly cold and desolate.
An hour later the sun began to rise. I had not fired a shot—nor had any of us. As a duck-shoot it was a dismal failure. By eight o’clock the sun was quite hot, so I tried to find a stomach—for breakfast. Failed again; but drank some sherry, and then lay down till noon in decomposing and malodorous reed-mush and mud. Never a duck came near, so shifted my stye to an old dry ridge—apparently an antediluvian division between two equally noisome swamps. Here I tried to sleep, but that was no good, for a headache had set in—possibly the effects of sun and sherry combined! I felt the sweeping wind of a marsh-harrier who had found me too suddenly and was half a mile away ere I could get up to shoot.
At four o’clock I signalled for Bufalo to take me back to our hut, distant eight miles, the only guide being that morning’s outward tracks.
It was on this ride that there occurred the incident of the day—thrilling indeed had it not been for the headache that left me cheaper than cheap. Having traversed some three miles of mud and water, suddenly I saw ahead the “camels a-coming!”—eleven of them in line, the last a calf, and what a splash they made! Knowing how horses hate the smell and sight of camels, and Bufalo being a rearing and uncomfortable beast at best, I felt perhaps unduly nervous. The camels were marching directly across my line of route and up-wind thereof. If only I could pass that intersecting point well before them, Bufalo, I hoped, might not catch the unwholesome scent. I tried all I could, but the mud was too sticky. The camel-corps came on, splashing, snorting, and striding at high speed. Bufalo saw them quick enough, I can tell you—he stopped dead, gazed and snorted in terror, spun round pirouetting half-a-dozen times, reared, and would certainly have bolted but that he stood well over his fetlocks in mud and nigh up to the girths in water. I could not induce him to face them anyhow; but remember, please, that I was handicapped by the mass of accoutrements and luggage slung around both me and my mount, to wit:—Several empty bottles and bags, remains of lunch, some 500 cartridges, three dozen ducks, a Paradox gun, waders, and brogues!
Meantime the camels passed my front within 100 yards and then “rounded up.” Having loaded both barrels with ball, I felt safer, and pushed Bufalo forwards—to fifty yards. Then the thought occurred to me, “Do camels charge?” Bufalo reared, twisted, and splashed about in sheer horror, and then—thank goodness—the corps, with a parting roar, or rather a chorus of vicious gurgling grunts, in clear resentment at my presence on the face of the water at all, turned and bolted out west at full speed. I was left alone, and much relieved.
The adult camels were of the most disreputable, not to say dissolute appearance, great ugly tangled mats of loose hair hanging from their shoulders, ribs, and flanks, their small ears laid viciously aback, and with utterly disagreeable countenances. I half wish now that I had shot that leading bull—he would never have been missed! I don’t suppose that any one has been nearer to these strange beasts than I was that day; certainly I trust never to see them so near again—never in this world!