Sporting Scenes amongst the Kaffirs of South Africa

by Alfred W. Drayson

I had lost sight of the eland for some time and began to fear that I had been thrown out of the run altogether; but by still pursuing my line, I knew I should meet some of the party. After cantering about three miles farther, I had the pleasure of viewing the game “rising” an opposite hill not a quarter of a mile from me.

The long stream of white foam blowing from his mouth, and the blue appearance that his coat had assumed, both indicated distress. My nag was unfortunately in fat condition, and had by this time begun “to ask for his mamma:” giving him a squeeze, I managed to hustle him along until I had reduced my distance from the eland to about eighty yards, when, jumping off, I fired. The previous gallop and excitement caused my hand to shake, and I heard the harmless whistle of the bullet as it sped on its course. The eland made a leap and changed his direction, giving me a broadside-shot; I dropped on my knee, and sent the second bullet into his shoulder; he stumbled as the shot struck him, but still held gallantly on. Again mounting, and loading as I cantered, I kept in his wake, hoping to see him soon fall, as he was bleeding freely; but he seemed to be rather invigorated by the loss of blood.

One of the Boers, who had changed to his second horse, now passed me, and firing, placed a second bullet in the eland’s shoulder. The eland still trotted rapidly away, and both my horse and the Boer’s being completely blown, we could go no farther. We could see the wounded animal pass over a hill in our front, and apparently go directly down on the other side; we managed to lead our horses to the top where he had passed, and took a minute survey of the surrounding plains, but could discover no signs of our lost antelope, as the country was so much broken by clumps of trees and undulations.

The other Dutchmen soon joined us, and blessed the eland in choice language for escaping and being such a hard runner. We all spread out along the ridges, to get if possible a view, as also to search for spoor; but the hard state of the ground prevented our doing anything by the latter means.

Evening closing in, we were forced to give up, and thus one of the finest specimens of horns that I ever saw on an eland’s head was lost. The animal must have miserably perished in some ravine, and found an ignoble tomb in the maws of hyaenas and wolves, instead of assisting at the festivities of our al fresco repast, or adding strength to the sinews of some worthy Dutch Boer, his “vrow” or “kinders.”

We did not reach the outspanned waggons until long after dark, and were directed to them by the firing kept up at intervals by the Hottentots at the waggons.

There is an established custom in Africa, that when any one is absent from the nightly gathering, a man is sent on to the nearest rise, when, putting the muzzle of his gun close to the ground, he fires the two barrels in quick succession: this is repeated at short intervals, and on a still night the report is heard many miles off. Should any one be lost, or in distress, at any time, the same signal from him serves to indicate it. I asked all the Dutchmen into my tent, and we had our beef and bread brought in hot-and-hot, with a steaming basin of tea from the bivouac-fire. I had with me a plentiful supply of brandy and gin, which I distributed to my guests with a free hand. They talked a great deal, the run we had had being the principal topic; they were generous enough to say that they thought I should have killed the eland at once, had I been allowed to go off after him.

I was much, amused to discover by their conversation in what poor estimation they held English sportsmen generally. Many of my gallant friends (oracles in their sporting world) would be struck dumb with horror if they knew with what contempt their performances would be looked upon, were they to show them amongst an African field. Perhaps I may clear up this apparent mystery if I relate what are considered the essentials necessary to even mediocrity in this land of sport.

It is absolutely necessary not only to be a good shot, but to be so after a sharp four-mile gallop, and from either shoulder; to load as well while at full speed as when on foot; to be able to ride boldly across country, and allow your horse to go down-hill at speed over the large stones and with a loose rein; to pull up, dismount, fire, and get up again with a rapidity a monkey might envy; and when an animal has been wounded and is out of sight, to lean over your horse’s shoulder, and follow the spoor at a canter on the hard ground with the accuracy of a hound; and last and not least, to take care to fly clear of your horse when he turns over in a jackal’s or porcupine’s hole, instead of letting him come on you and smash a few ribs. These and many other qualifications, I have no doubt, most of my readers possess; but there may be some who do not, and who in consequence would not stand A1 in the far south.

Many offers were made to me to go on elephant-shooting trips into the interior with these men, who purposed a journey during the next dry season: the Boers’ anecdotes gave a great impulse to my already long-cherished wishes, but circumstances unavoidably prevented this trip.