Not many months ago the habitués of the Jardin des Plantes, the Paris “Zoo,” were much astonished to notice that one of their favourites—Jack, the hippopotamus—displayed signs of unwonted irritation. The change in the animal’s temper had been quite sudden. Hitherto Jack had been extraordinarily docile; now, whenever it became necessary to make him change his quarters, either for the purpose of cleaning the cage or to show him off to better advantage to visitors, he yielded with manifest surliness.
Then there came a day when the keeper in whose charge Jack had been for a great number of years found it quite impossible to induce the animal to leave his bath for the open enclosure, beyond the bars of which a score or two of nurses and children were eagerly waiting to feast their eyes upon him. The more insistent the keeper grew, the more did it become evident that the great, unwieldy beast was determined to try conclusions with its human tormentor. On his side the keeper was equally obstinate, but blandishment being clearly of no avail he resorted to more convincing measures.
Poor fellow, he little realized his danger! To the unutterable horror of those present the animal’s enormous jaws suddenly flew apart, disclosing a cavernous mouth and throat. By the time those jaws had closed again the unfortunate keeper had ceased to be numbered among the living!
Appeased, apparently, by this act of savage ferocity, Jack has since been as docile as he ever was. His diminutive, befogged brain had, no doubt, suddenly shown him, as in the mirage of fever, some dimly recognisable vision of the luxuriant African landscapes he was eternally severed from. He may—who knows?—have thought of other creatures like himself, lazily enjoying existence in sun-warmed, muddy streams, browsing at will on unspeakably luscious herbage. Then, perhaps, an illuminating flash of lightning rage showed him instantaneously the long tale of wrongs inflicted upon his dull-witted race by the white man. Because his ivory is finer-grained than that of the elephant and because it does not so easily become yellow, because his hide—cut into narrow strips—makes superexcellent sticks, not an instant’s respite from persecution is accorded to the poor “river horse.” Pitilessly is he harried and massacred, the hunter’s rifle vomiting forth a constant stream of bullets—“dum-dum,” explosive, or steel-pointed—to pierce the massive, narrow skull.
As a consequence of this ceaseless warfare the rivers are so rapidly becoming depopulated that the day cannot be far distant when, like the American buffalo, the African hippopotamus will be nothing but a memory. Possibly the domesticated “dark continent” of to-morrow will piously preserve in some park, national or international, a model herd of the only surviving representatives of this once prolific race. Learned men will then bring forward convincing arguments to prove the propriety of favouring the propagation of such useful animals; but the useful animals themselves, wearied out by the last years of their persecuted existence, will probably refuse to breed. Already the hippopotamus is scarce enough to make us realize some of the good that is in him. The knowledge has come too late; the “river horse,” it seems, is doomed to disappear. Under these circumstances, perhaps, the recital of my own recent experiences while hunting hippopotami may be found of interest.
To the African traveller the hippopotamus is a species of game particularly desirable, for its ivory and its hide are both valuable, while the not inconsiderable danger involved in its pursuit provides the delicious emotion without which every kind of hunting is tame and insipid. Moreover, the obligation under which the leader of the expedition lies to feed his servants and carriers adequately makes one of these enormous beasts, twelve feet long or so and disproportionately wide, a perfect godsend. Not only does the hippopotamus furnish a formidable amount of meat, but that meat has the inestimable merit of keeping fresh much longer than any other, principally owing to the fact that flies seem to have an insurmountable horror for it. I must admit that for a long time I thoroughly sympathized with the flies! Alive, the hippopotamus has a very peculiar odour, somewhat resembling musk, which discloses the presence of the animal from afar, when he happens to be to windward of one. In the flesh of the dead animal this odour—or the taste of it, rather—persists, and is much appreciated by the natives, though Europeans take a long time to get accustomed to it; some are never able to support it.
Once, when I was in the neighbourhood of the Chari River, my men informed me that a herd of hippopotami were in possession of a series of ponds not far from our camp. I immediately marched in their direction. As we approached the water we heard the trumpeting of the leader of the herd, and almost simultaneously caught sight of him. Erect on a small bank, his formidable mouth widely opened, he was uttering that characteristic neighing sound in which there are notes that remind one both of the lowing of a cow and the roar of a lion. On the surface of the ponds, moving quickly from place to place, were to be seen what appeared to be large balks of some kind of dark wood; these were the muzzles of the remaining members of the herd.
I succeeded in getting round the water unobserved to a spot where I was concealed from the animals by a small islet which occupied the middle of the pond. To this island I transported myself by means of a small and primitive canoe, which two of my men had brought on the chance of its being required.
By this time the old male had taken to the water again. The whole herd were now vaguely alarmed, for from my place of ambush I could obtain only fleeting glimpses every now and then of a muzzle momentarily showing itself on the surface of the water—just long enough for the animal to take breath—and then disappearing.