Each hunter had on a capricious head-dress. One tall fellow was very conspicuous by wearing a pair of buffalo horns; another had a rhinoceros horn on the top of his head; another had his head draped with a piece of zebra skin, which gave him quite a remarkable appearance by moonlight; one had a zebra crest, which made him appear as if he wore a Greek helmet; another had a goatskin over his head. Kalulu wore three magnificent snowy ostrich plumes on his head. Selim wore a turban. Simba and Moto also wore turbans. One fellow, next to Moto, wore an enormous black earthen pot on his head; another had a broad, wooden dish; but it would be wearying to enumerate all the strange things they wore.
The drummer boys struck up an interlude, which was a verse from the boatmen’s song—the chorus,
We are gliding,
Softly gliding,
seemingly giving them immeasurable enjoyment as they lingered over the word “gliding.” While they were busy with feet and lungs, moving about in a circle, a sudden silence prevailed;—the great Soltali, the greatest elephant hunter and doctor of magic of the age, arrived upon the scene.
A loud murmur of approbation greeted the extraordinary old man. The most remarkable of all head-dresses was on the head of Soltali, for he had the skin of an elephant’s trunk, the base of the trunk fitting his head, as if it had grown there, while the trunk, filled with grass, was stiff enough to stand perfectly erect, though perhaps it was stiff enough without. The weight of this must have been considerable; but the ridiculous vanity of men causes them to do strange things sometimes, and this act could have been nothing else than absurdest vanity. Hanging around the old man’s neck was a string of giraffe tails, whose hairs were blacker than ink. On his arms he wore wristlets and armlets of pure white ivory. In each hand he carried a gourd half full of pebbles, which he rattled every now and then with a horrible noise.
He first, after he entered the inner circle, walked around three times, staring at each man, rattling his gourds alternately, as he passed round; then walking to the centre, while the bass drum began to hum and murmur its deep sounds, he began to move his body to the right and left, each hunter sighing deeply in sympathy with the now fast rising murmur of all the drums in concert. Loud and louder beat the drums, until the noise was deafening, and the voices of the singers became a demoniac din; then lower and lower descended the voices and the drum-sounds, until nothing was heard but the pacific and low murmur of the bass drum and the low sighs of the dancers.
Then Soltali opened his mouth and sang, in the heroic vein, of his doings in the elephant hunt in the far southern lands, the streamy land of the Wa-marungu, in the hot swampy lands of the Wawemba, and on the broad plains of Ututa; of his mishaps and fortunes, his narrow, hair-breadth escapes, and his wonderful adventures, out of which the author of the present history might make his fame and fortune were he gifted with the power to translate into some kind of verse what Soltali said.
Though demurring somewhat at the necessity of translating at all what the old man said, the author feels compelled to give the gist of the charge he gave the hunters concerning their conduct when they should meet an elephant. He spoke authoritatively and well, and it is a pity that a better translator is not at my side to assist me in the translation of some of the Kituta polysyllables.
“Let the warrior Watuta, and the hunters bold
Heed and mark well the words of the Mganga old;
Let them behold these charms, these trophies of my might
Each of them reminds me of many a hard fight.
Should ye meet the elephant alone in a plain,
Seek not too hastily to give him the death pain.
Singly let none attack him - ’tis an unequal fight;
For the elephant is strong, the embodiment of might;
But surround him coolly, and carefully all,
Be ready to obey your leader’s slightest call;
Then charge on him, all shouting, and charge with your spears;
Let the stoutest and best of you aim behind his ears.
Watch well the unfortunate on whom he turns round!
He must run this and that way, and oft change his ground;
Ye others must tease him, and invite him your way,
Hamstring him, and spear him, and do what ye may.
Beware of his front! range on his sides and his rear,
Go all together, and let each man heave a sure spear.
Fast as he veers round, hasten at right angles away
To ’scape the elephant’s first charge is no child’s play,
For his stride is so long he swallows the ground:
One stride of his is as long as a hunter’s bound.
After a while he will get tired - heed well what I say,
He is never so dangerous as when standing at bay;
For the hunter too often thinks he is dead game,
And advances too near him, too eager for fame;
But be ye guided by me, and stand off afar,
And your good hunt so well done, ye will not mar.
Let the elephant bleed, let him fall to the ground,
Let him gladden your ears with his fall’s heavy sound!
Then think of the Mganga, the words he has said;
Be sure that his services to you are well paid!
Then will ye succeed in your hunt on the plain,
Succeed without loss, and succeed without pain!”
The author may not attempt further translations from the speech, or song rather, of this old Mganga or magic doctor, the Kituta polysyllables having tasked his powers to the utmost; but from his knowledge of hunting in Africa, he feels bound to admit that the old man had a sound head on his shoulders; and the band of hunters having heard his lengthy chant to the end, declared that they felt eternally grateful to him. On the conclusion of his chant, he delivered to each hunter a small portion of whitish powder, which we, who have been in his museum, feel confident consisted of burnt brain, mixed with wood ashes. But this charm, consecrated by the magic doctor, could not fail to render each hunter highly successful in his enterprise.