Of the Kaffirs I had seen nothing since we fired: they had disappeared most miraculously. I gave the usual whistle, and was answered at some distance by them. They came to the tree on which I was perched, looked at me, my gun, and the buffalo’s footprints; everything was instantly explained to them; they shook their heads, covered their mouths with their hands, and gave a long w-o-w. After asking one or two questions, Monyosi advised me not to run again towards the direction in which a buffalo’s head pointed, but to dart to the right or left.
We found plenty of blood on the trail, and hoped to come up with our wounded friend. His hardened old constitution did not seem to have suffered much as yet; for four miles at least were passed over without our at all appearing to gain on this old die-hard.
We had entered directly into the bush, and had consequently to retrace all our steps to get clear again; it was nearly dark now, and twilight is scarcely a reality near the tropics, darkness following so immediately on daylight. The Kaffirs proposed our stopping on the trail, but I was unfortunately very hungry, and had a very great desire for a bottle of Bass and a beefsteak, which I knew awaited me at home; I therefore gave up the idea of a leaf bed, and voted for a return. We came along very quickly, and reached the edge of the bush after the moon had risen some time, and had given her light in exchange for that of the sun; she did not equal it, but she certainly made it as much like day as it is possible for night to be; we could see everything, out of the shades of the forest, quite as distinctly as by daylight. A large herd of wild-pigs had come out to have a peep at the open glade in which we were; they loomed large in the distance, and we mistook them for buffaloes; upon getting near enough for a shot, they were discovered to be bush-pigs. We shot a couple before they knew of our approach.
On the occasion that I mentioned of buffalo-shooting, while on my trip up the country with the Kaffir Inkau, he led on quietly and steadily, and at length stopped, and slowly raising his arm, pointed in the direction of a large tree. I followed his point, and saw a fine old buffalo standing with his ears moving about, and his snout in the air. I brought both barrels to the full cock, by the “artful dodge,” without noise, and gave the contents to him right and left behind the shoulder, when he sprang forward, and dashed wildly through the forest. After rushing a hundred yards or so, at full speed, he dropped dead.
I went across the Umlass for a week’s shooting with a Kaffir named M’untu; near his kraal there was some undulating ground sprinkled with bush, which was said to be visited occasionally by buffalo. Having one of my horses fit to go, I was anxious for a gallop after these wide-awake fellows. Starting at peep of day, I found a herd of ten or twelve grazing near a ravine; they saw or heard me from a considerable distance, and sneaked into the ravine.
It is curious how soon a white man’s approach causes alarm to the wild animals of Africa. Whilst a Kaffir can pass about almost unnoticed, the former is at once a cause of terror.
I entered the ravine, and by shouting and firing a shot scattered the herd of buffaloes in a few minutes; I did not get close to them in the ravine, but saw them topping the ridge outside.
I was soon after them: the country was undulating, with a little bush here and there. I yelled at the troop as they galloped along huddled together, and turned them from a thick patch of bush, for which they were making, into a large flat open plain with short springy turf. Here is the Epsom of Africa; a lawn of twenty-five miles, flat as a billiard-table is the course, the match is p.p., the parties are a stout little thirteen hands high pony with eleven stone on his back, and a bull-buffalo sixteen hands high with a feather weight. Now what are the odds—who will bet two to one on the buffalo? No takers! An even bet I name the winner. What is the opinion of the jackal, I wonder, who is peeping over the shoulders of his young family from out of the hole that has been his residence since the ant-bear who built it was killed last year by a leopard? What will the Bushman lay against the inthumba (buffalo) being dropped in the first two miles? This fellow does not care much which is the winner, he only wishes to see one or the other killed. From his hiding-place in the rocky crannies, he watches the race with great excitement. If the buffalo is killed, he is sure to fall in for a share of the meat. If the white man breaks his neck in some of the jackals’ holes or game-pits, it will be hard lines if this own brother to the baboons does not manage to have a good ride that very night on the saddle that the umlungo (white man) lately occupied.
Now they are all ready for the start,—great excitement in the crowd. Jackals shuffle and shriek; even the hyaena, that has hitherto appeared asleep, wakes up and gives an hysterical laugh; the vultures and eagles, from the top of their grand stand high up in the clouds, have a capital view, wheeling slowly round, in readiness either to gorge the flesh of the buffalo or pollute that of the white hunter. The hoofs of the horse striking on the ground act the part of starting-bell; the hunter’s approach is thus discovered; the buffalo whirls his tail, and the Umlungo bends in his saddle; and “They’re off!” would be the remark were any there to make it. But no, not a living soul is seen; all is earth, sky, and wild animals. One white man is the only thing bearing God’s image that is now within ten miles, and he is employed in fulfilling the ordinance that “over every beast of the field shalt thou have dominion.” The Bushman, on the distant rocky mountain, sees the race plainly without the aid of a telescope, and watches intently what is so intelligible to his experienced eyes, but what would be to some of our highly scientific savants’ visions like two indistinct specks. The fight weight takes the lead at a rattling pace, and leaves the eleven stone far behind; he trusts to his speed, but still thinks it may be necessary to keep those rocky mountains under his lee, in which to retreat, as a sort of nest-egg. Away they go; flowering geraniums and candelabra-shaped amaryllis are trodden down as though the veriest weeds on earth. “Cluck, cluck—click, click—nhlpr-nh!” Why is the Bushman so excited? Ah! he knows all about it; the buffalo has turned a little, and is now making for some old game-pits, with a sharp stake in the middle of each. Now, what a chance!—both buffalo and horse may be engulphed—all three perhaps killed! What a glorious finale this would be! Fancy the jollification of buffalo beef to commence with, and a second course of horseflesh, while between the mouthfuls a knife might be driven in spite between the ribs of the broken-necked white man, whose body would be lying by! What would be a feast of turtle and venison compared to this? In England you don’t know how to live and feast like a Bushman. Unfortunately, and bad luck for “Cluck-click,” neither buffalo nor horse has yet broken his neck. There is no one looking on to see how the horse goes,—no one to give another fifty for him,—no one to see how he crossed that old watercourse; and yet how boldly the man rides. He is not riding in this style merely to sell the animal: he does not look round to see if any of the swells of the field are watching him, and then for applause, or money in prospect, cram his horse at a stiff rail, at which his craven heart would not dare even to look were no man near. No! it must really be that the heart and soul of this desert rider are in his sport, and that he feels—
“There is rapture to vault on the champing steed.
And bound away with the eagle’s speed,
With the death-fraught firelock in his hand,
The only law of the desert land.”