The fact was, that Ben’s shot was too small for such game; and if he had hit a hundred times with it, he could not have killed so large an animal as these antelopes were.
Chapter Twenty.
Ben was now sorry he had not brought a bullet with him, or, at all events, some slugs. Larger shot he could not have brought, as there was none on board the barque. But, indeed, in starting out our ambition had not soared so high; neither my companion nor I had anticipated meeting such fine game as a herd of antelopes, and we had prepared ourselves just as we should have done for a day’s fowling about the downs of Portsmouth. Birds we expected would be the principal game to be met with, and, therefore, birds, and small ones only, had anything to fear from us. It is not likely that Ben would have shot the vulture had he not crept so near; and then, even the small shot, projected so powerfully by the huge piece, had penetrated its body and killed it.
We therefore greatly regretted not having provided ourselves with “slugs,” or a bullet or two, out of which we could easily have made them.
Regrets were to no purpose, however. We were too far from the barque to go back for them. It would be no joke walking so far in the great heat that there was—besides, by going directly back we should have to pass once more through the palm-wood, and this we had determined to avoid by going round it on our return. No; we could not think of taking the backtrack just then. We must do the best we could without the slugs, and, so resolving, Ben once more loaded “Queen Anne” with the snipe-shot, and we marched on.
We had not gone very far when a singular sort of a tree drew our attention. It stood all alone, though there were others of a similar kind at no great distance. The others, however, were much smaller, and it was the largest that had drawn our attention. Indeed, though the smaller trees bore a general resemblance to this one—so that you could tell they were of the very same kind—yet they differed very considerably from it, both in form and aspect; and, but for the peculiarity of the leaves, one might have taken them for trees of altogether distinct species. The leaves of both, however, were exactly alike, and from this and other indications it was evident that both were trees of the same kind, only that a difference of age had created a difference in their aspect—as great as would be between a chubby, rosy-cheeked child and a wrinkled old man of eighty. The small trees, and consequently the younger ones, rose upon a straight, round stem, only a few feet in height. Each was about the height of a full-grown man, while the stem itself, or trunk as it should more properly be called, was full as thick as a stout man’s body; and what was curious in a tree, it was even thicker at the top than at the base, as if it had been taken out of the ground and re-planted wrong end upwards! Upon this clumsy-looking trunk there was not a single branch—not even a twig, but just upon its top grew out a vast tuft of long, straight spikes that resembled broad-sword blades, only that they were of a green colour. They pointed in every direction, radiating from a common centre, so as to form a large head somewhat roundish, or globe-shaped. Any one who has seen an aloe or a yucca-plant will be able to form some idea of the foliage of the singular tree upon which my companion and I stood gazing in wonderment. The leaves were more like those of the yucca than the aloe—indeed, so like the yucca was the whole tree, that, from what I afterwards saw of yucca-trees in Mexico and South America, I am convinced that these are very near the same kind—that is, they were of the same habit and family, though, as I also learned afterwards, esteemed different by botanists.
Then I had never seen a yucca, much less a tree of the kind we were gazing at; of course I could only guess at what they might be.
Ben thought they were palms; but Ben was wrong again, for he was no great discriminator of genus or species. His opinion was based upon the general aspect which the trees—that is, the smaller ones—presented. Certainly, with their single, regularly rounded stem, crowned by the radiating circle of leaves, they had something of the peculiar look of palm-trees, and a person entirely ignorant of botany, who had never seen one of the sort before, would, in all likelihood, have pronounced as my companion had done, and called them palms. In the eyes of a jolly-tar, all trees that have this radiating foliage, such as aloes, and yucca, and the zamias of South Africa, are palm-trees; therefore it was natural for Ben to call the trees in question by this name. Of course he saw they were different from the oil-palms among which he had been wandering; but Ben knew there were several sorts of palm-trees, although he would not have believed it had he been told there were a thousand. I should have been compelled to agree with Ben, and believe these strange trees to be veritable palms—for I was no more of a botanist than he—but, odd as it may appear, I was able to tell that they were not palms; and, more than that, able to tell what sort of trees they actually were. This knowledge I derived from a somewhat singular circumstance, which I shall relate.