I make no apology to myself, or to anybody who may happen to read this
narrative in future, for having set out the manner of my meeting with
Indaba-zimbi: first, because it was curious, and secondly, because he takes
some hand in the subsequent events. If that old man was a humbug, he was a very
clever one. What amount of truth there was in his pretensions to supernatural
powers it is not for me to determine, though I may have my own opinion on the
subject. But there was no mistake as to the extraordinary influence he
exercised over his fellow-natives. Also he quite got round my poor father. At
first the old gentleman declined to have him at the station, for he had a great
horror of these Kaffir wizards or witch-finders. But Indaba-zimbi persuaded him
that he was anxious to investigate the truths of Christianity, and challenged
him to a discussion. The argument lasted two years—to the time of my
father’s death, indeed. At the conclusion of each stage Indaba-zimbi
would remark, in the words of the Roman Governor, “Almost, praying white
man, thou persuadest me to become a Christian,” but he never quite became
one—indeed, I do not think he ever meant to. It was to him that my father
addressed his “Letters to a Native Doubter.” This work, which,
unfortunately, remains in manuscript, is full of wise saws and learned
instances. It ought to be published together with a précis of the
doubter’s answers, which were verbal.
So the talk went on. If my father had lived I believe it would be going on now,
for both the disputants were quite inexhaustible. Meanwhile Indaba-zimbi was
allowed to live on the station on condition that he practised no witchcraft,
which my father firmly believed to be a wile of the devil. He said that he
would not, but for all that there was never an ox lost, or a sudden death, but
he was consulted by those interested.
When he had been with us a year, a deputation came to him from the tribe he had
left, asking him to return. Things had not gone well with them since he went
away, they said, and now the chief, his enemy, was dead. Old Indaba-zimbi
listened to them till they had done, and, as he listened, raked sand into a
little heap with his toes. Then he spoke, pointing to the little heap,
“There is your tribe to-day,” he said. Then he lifted his heel and
stamped the heap flat. “There is your tribe before three moons are gone.
Nothing is left of it. You drove me away: I will have no more to do with you;
but when you are being killed think of my words.”
The messengers went. Three months afterwards I heard that the whole community
had been wiped out by an Impi of raiding Pondos.
When I was at length ready to start upon my expedition, I went to old
Indaba-zimbi to say good-bye to him, and was rather surprised to find him
engaged in rolling up medicine, assegais, and other sundries in his blankets.
“Good-bye, Indaba-zimbi,” I said, “I am going to trek
north.”
“Yes, Macumazahn,” he answered, with his head on one side;
“and so am I—I want to see that country. We will go
together.”
“Will we!” I said; “wait till you are asked, you old
humbug.”
“You had better ask me, then, Macumazahn, for if you don’t you will
never come back alive. Now that the old chief (my father) is gone to where the
storms come from,” and he nodded to the sky, “I feel myself getting
into bad habits again. So last night I just threw up the bones and worked out
about your journey, and I can tell you this, that if you don’t take me
you will die, and, what is more, you will lose one who is dearer to you than
life in a strange fashion. So just because you gave me that hint a couple of
years ago, I made up my mind to come with you.”
“Don’t talk stuff to me,” I said.
“Ah, very well, Macumazahn, very well; but what happened to my own people
six months ago, and what did I tell the messengers would happen? They drove me
away, and they are gone. If you drive me away you will soon be gone too,”
and he nodded his white lock at me and smiled. Now I was not more superstitious
than other people, but somehow old Indaba-zimbi impressed me. Also I knew his
extraordinary influence over every class of native, and bethought me that he
might be useful in that way.
“All right,” I said: “I appoint you witch-finder to the
expedition without pay.”
“First serve, then ask for wages,” he answered. “I am glad to
see that you have enough imagination not to be altogether a fool, like most
white men, Macumazahn. Yes, yes, it is want of imagination that makes people
fools; they won’t believe what they can’t understand. You
can’t understand my prophecies any more than the fool at the kraal could
understand that I was his master with the lightning. Well, it is time to trek,
but if I were you, Macumazahn, I should take one waggon, not two.”
“Why?” I said.
“Because you will lose your waggons, and it is better to lose one than
two.”
“Oh, nonsense!” I said.
“All right, Macumazahn, live and learn.” And without another word
he walked to the foremost waggon, put his bundle into it, and climbed on to the
front seat.
So having bid an affectionate adieu to my white friends, including the old
Scotchman who got drunk in honour of the event, and quoted Burns till the tears
ran down his face, at length I started, and travelled slowly northwards. For
the first three weeks nothing very particular befell me. Such Kaffirs as we
came in contact with were friendly, and game literally swarmed. Nobody living
in those parts of South Africa nowadays can have the remotest idea of what the
veldt was like even thirty years ago.
Often and often I have crept shivering on to my waggon-box just as the sun rose
and looked out. At first one would see nothing but a vast field of white mist
suffused towards the east by a tremulous golden glow, through which the tops of
stony koppies stood up like gigantic beacons. From the dense mist would come
strange sounds—snorts, gruntings, bellows, and the thunder of countless
hoofs. Presently this great curtain would grow thinner, then it would melt, as
the smoke from a pipe melts into the air, and for miles on miles the wide
rolling country interspersed with bush opened to the view. But it was not
tenantless as it is now, for as far as the eye could reach it would be
literally black with game. Here to the right might be a herd of vilderbeeste
that could not number less than two thousand. Some were grazing, some
gambolled, whisking their white tails into the air, while all round the old
bulls stood upon hillocks sniffing suspiciously at the breeze. There, in front,
a hundred yards away, though to the unpractised eye they looked much closer,
because of the dazzling clearness of the atmosphere, was a great herd of
springbok trekking along in single file. Ah, they have come to the waggon-track
and do not like the look of it. What will they do?—go back? Not a bit of
it. It is nearly thirty feet wide, but that is nothing to a springbok. See, the
first of them bounds into the air like a ball. How beautifully the sunshine
gleams upon his golden hide! He has cleared it, and the others come after him
in numberless succession, all except the fawns, who cannot jump so far, and
have to scamper over the doubtful path with a terrified bah. What is
that yonder, moving above the tops of the mimosa, in the little dell at the
foot of the koppie? Giraffes, by George! three of them; there will be
marrow-bones for supper to-night. Hark! the ground shakes behind us, and over
the brow of the rise rush a vast herd of blesbock. On they come at full gallop,
their long heads held low, they look like so many bearded goats. I thought
so—behind them is a pack of wild dogs, their fur draggled, their tongues
lolling. They are in full cry; the giraffes hear them and are away, rolling
round the koppie like a ship in a heavy sea. No marrow-bones after all. See!
the foremost dogs are close on a buck. He has galloped far and is outworn. One
springs at his flank and misses him. The buck gives a kind of groan, looks
wildly round and sees the waggon. He seems to hesitate a moment, then in his
despair rushes up to it, and falls exhausted among the oxen. The dogs pull up
some thirty paces away, panting and snarling. Now, boy, the gun—no, not
the rifle, the shot-gun loaded with loopers.
Bang! bang! there, my friends, two of you will never hunt buck again. No,
don’t touch the buck, for he has come to us for shelter, and he shall
have it.
Ah, how beautiful is nature before man comes to spoil it!
Such a sight as this have I seen many a hundred times, and I hope to see it
again before I die.
The first real adventure that befell me on this particular journey was with
elephants, which I will relate because of its curious termination. Just before
we crossed the Orange River we came to a stretch of forest-land some twenty
miles broad. The night we entered this forest we camped in a lovely open glade.
A few yards ahead tambouki grass was growing to the height of a man, or rather
it had been; now, with the exception of a few stalks here and there, it was
crushed quite flat. It was already dusk when we camped; but after the moon got
up I walked from the fire to see how this had happened. One glance was enough
for me; a great herd of elephants had evidently passed over the tall grass not
many hours before. The sight of their spoor rejoiced me exceedingly, for though
I had seen wild elephants, at that time I had never shot one. Moreover, the
sight of elephant spoor to the African hunter is what “colour in the
pan” is to the prospector of gold. It is by the ivory that he lives, and
to shoot it or trade it is his chief aim in life. My resolution was soon taken.
I would camp the waggons for a while in the forest, and start on horseback
after the elephants.
I communicated my decision to Indaba-zimbi and the other Kaffirs. The latter
were not loth, for your Kaffir loves hunting, which means plenty of meat and
congenial occupation, but Indaba-zimbi would express no opinion. I saw him
retire to a little fire that he had lit for himself, and go through some
mysterious performances with bones and clay mixed with ashes, which were
watched with the greatest interest by the other Kaffirs. At length he rose,
and, coming forward, informed me that it was all right, and that I did well to
go and hunt the elephants, as I should get plenty of ivory; but he advised me
to go on foot. I said I should do nothing of the sort, but meant to ride. I am
wiser now; this was the first and last time that I ever attempted to hunt
elephants on horseback.
Accordingly we started at dawn, I, Indaba-zimbi, and three men; the rest I left
with the waggons. I was on horseback, and so was my driver, a good rider and a
skilful shot for a Kaffir, but Indaba-zimbi and the others walked. From dawn
till mid-day we followed the trail of the herd, which was as plain as a high
road. Then we off-saddled to let the horses rest and feed, and about three
o’clock started on again. Another hour or so passed, and still there was
no sign of elephants. Evidently the herd had travelled fast and far, and I
began to think that we should have to give it up, when suddenly I caught sight
of a brown mass moving through the thorn-trees on the side of a slope about a
quarter of a mile away. My heart seemed to jump into my mouth. Where is the
hunter who has not felt like this at the sight of his first elephant?
I called a halt, and then the wind being right, we set to work to stalk the
bull. Very quietly I rode down the hither side of the slope till we came to the
bottom, which was densely covered with bush. Here I saw the elephants had been
feeding, for broken branches and upturned trees lay all about. I did not take
much notice, however, for all my thoughts were fixed upon the bull I was
stalking, when suddenly my horse gave a violent start that nearly threw me from
the saddle, and there came a mighty rush and upheaval of something in front of
me. I looked: there was the hinder part of a second bull elephant not four
yards off. I could just catch sight of its outstretched ears projecting on
either side. I had disturbed it sleeping, and it was running away.
Obviously the best thing to do would have been to let it run, but I was young
in those days and foolish, and in the excitement of the moment I lifted my
“roer” or elephant gun and fired at the great brute over my
horse’s head. The recoil of the heavy gun nearly knocked me off the
horse. I recovered myself, however, and, as I did so, saw the bull lurch
forward, for the impact of a three-ounce bullet in the flank will quicken the
movement even of an elephant. By this time I had realized the folly of the
shot, and devoutly hoped that the bull would take no further notice of it. But
he took a different view of the matter. Pulling himself up in a series of
plunges, he spun round and came for me with outstretched ears and uplifted
trunk, screaming terribly. I was quite defenceless, for my gun was empty, and
my first thought was of escape. I dug my heels into the sides of my horse, but
he would not move an inch. The poor animal was paralyzed with terror, and he
simply stood still, his fore-legs outstretched, and quivering all over like a
leaf.
On rushed the elephant, awful to see; I made one more vain effort to stir the
horse. Now the trunk of the great bull swung aloft above my head. A thought
flashed through my brain. Quick as light I rolled from the saddle. By the side
of the horse lay a fallen tree, as thick through as a man’s body. The
tree was lifted a little off the ground by the broken boughs which took its
weight, and with a single movement, so active is one in such necessities, I
flung myself beneath it. As I did so, I heard the trunk of the elephant descend
with a mighty thud on the back of my poor horse, and the next instant I was
almost in darkness, for the horse, whose back was broken, fell over across the
tree under which I lay ensconced. But he did not stop there long. In ten
seconds more the bull had wound his trunk about my dead nag’s neck, and,
with a mighty effort, hurled him clear of the tree. I wriggled backwards as far
as I could towards the roots of the tree, for I knew what he was after.
Presently I saw the red tip of the bull’s trunk stretching itself towards
me. If he could manage to hook it round any part of me I was lost. But in the
position I occupied, that was just what he could not do, although he knelt down
to facilitate his operations. On came the snapping tip like a great
open-mouthed snake; it closed upon my hat, which vanished. Again it was thrust
down, and a scream of rage was bellowed through it within four inches of my
head. Now it seemed to elongate itself. Oh, heavens! now it had me by the hair,
which, luckily for myself, was not very long. Then it was my turn to scream,
for next instant half a square inch of hair was dragged from my scalp by the
roots. I was being plucked alive, as I have seen cruel Kaffir kitchen boys
pluck a fowl.
The elephant, however, disappointed with these moderate results, changed his
tactics. He wound his trunk round the fallen tree and lifted. The tree stirred,
but fortunately the broken branches embedded in the spongy soil, and some
roots, which still held, prevented it from being turned over, though he lifted
it so much that, had it occurred to him, he could now easily have drawn me out
with his trunk. Again he hoisted with all his mighty strength, and I saw that
the tree was coming, and roared aloud for help. Some shots were fired close by
in answer, but if they hit the bull, their only effect was to stir his energies
to more active life. In another few seconds my shelter would be torn away, and
I should be done for. A cold perspiration burst out over me as I realized that
I was lost. Then of a sudden I remembered that I had a pistol in my belt, which
I often used for despatching wounded game. It was loaded and capped. By this
time the tree was lifted so much that I could easily get my hand down to my
middle and draw the pistol from its case. I drew and cocked it. Now the tree
was coming over, and there, within three feet of my head, was the great brown
trunk of the elephant. I placed the muzzle of the pistol within an inch of it
and fired. The result was instantaneous. Down sunk the tree again, giving one
of my legs a considerable squeeze, and next instant I heard a crashing sound.
The elephant had bolted.
By this time, what between fright and struggling, I was pretty well tired. I
cannot remember how I got from under the fallen tree, or indeed anything, until
I found myself sitting on the ground drinking some peach brandy from a flask,
and old Indaba-zimbi opposite to me nodding his white lock sagely, while he
fired off moral reflections on the narrowness of my escape, and my unwisdom in
not having taken his advice to go on foot. That reminded me of my horse—I
got up and went to look at it. It was quite dead, the blow of the
elephant’s trunk had fallen on the saddle, breaking the framework, and
rendering it useless. I reflected that in another two seconds it would have
fallen on me. Then I called to Indaba-zimbi and asked which way the
elephants had gone.
“There!” he said, pointing down the gully, “and we had better
go after them, Macumazahn. We have had the bad luck, now for the good.”
There was philosophy in this, though, to tell the truth, I did not feel
particularly sharp set on elephants at the moment. I seemed to have had enough
of them. However, it would never do to show the white feather before the boys,
so I assented with much outward readiness, and we started, I on the second
horse, and the others on foot. When we had travelled for the best part of an
hour down the valley, all of a sudden we came upon the whole herd, which
numbered a little more than eighty. Just in front of them the bush was so thick
that they seemed to hesitate about entering it, and the sides of the valley
were so rocky and steep at this point that they could not climb them.
They saw us at the same moment as we saw them, and inwardly I was filled with
fears lest they should take it into their heads to charge back up the gully.
But they did not; trumpeting aloud, they rushed at the thick bush which went
down before them like corn before a sickle. I do not think that in all my
experiences I ever heard anything to equal the sound they made as they crashed
through and over the shrubs and trees. Before them was a dense forest belt from
a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet in width. As they rushed on, it fell, so
that behind them was nothing but a level roadway strewed with fallen trunks,
crushed branches, and here and there a tree, too strong even for them, left
stranded amid the wreck. On they went, and, notwithstanding the nature of the
ground over which they had to travel, they kept their distance ahead of us.
This sort of thing continued for a mile or more, and then I saw that in front
of the elephants the valley opened into a space covered with reeds and
grass—it might have been five or six acres in extent—beyond which
the valley ran on again.
The herd reached the edge of this expanse, and for a moment pulled up,
hesitating—evidently they mistrusted it. My men yelled aloud, as only
Kaffirs can, and that settled them. Headed by the wounded bull, whose martial
ardour, like my own, was somewhat cooled, they spread out and dashed into the
treacherous swamp—for such it was, though just then there was no water to
be seen. For a few yards all went well with them, though they clearly found it
heavy going; then suddenly the great bull sank up to his belly in the stiff
peaty soil, and remained fixed. The others, mad with fear, took no heed of his
struggles and trumpetings, but plunged on to meet the same fate. In five
minutes the whole herd of them were hopelessly bogged, and the more they
struggled to escape, the deeper they sunk. There was one exception, indeed, a
cow managed to win back to firm shore, and, lifting her trunk, prepared to
charge us as we came up. But at that moment she heard the scream of her calf,
and rushed back to its assistance, only to be bogged with the others.
Such a scene I never saw before or since. The swamp was spotted all over with
the large forms of the elephants, and the air rang with their screams of rage
and terror as they waved their trunks wildly to and fro. Now and then a monster
would make a great effort and drag his mass from its peaty bed, only to stick
fast again at the next step. It was a most pitiable sight, though one that
gladdened the hearts of my men. Even the best natives have little compassion
for the sufferings of animals.
Well, the rest was easy. The marsh that would not bear the elephants carried
our weight well enough. Before midnight all were dead, for we shot them by
moonlight. I would gladly have spared the young ones and some of the cows, but
to do so would only have meant leaving them to perish of hunger; it was kinder
to kill them at once. The wounded bull I slew with my own hand, and I cannot
say that I felt much compunction in so doing. He knew me again, and made a
desperate effort to get at me, but I am glad to say that the peat held him
fast.
The pan presented a curious sight when the sun rose next morning. Owing to the
support given by the soil, few of the dead elephants had fallen: there they
stood as though they were asleep.
I sent back for the waggons, and when they arrived on the morrow, formed a
camp, about a mile away from the pan. Then began the work of cutting out the
elephants’ tusks; it took over a week, and for obvious reasons was a
disgusting task. Indeed, had it not been for the help of some wandering
bushmen, who took their pay in elephant meat, I do not think we could ever have
managed it.
At last it was done. The ivory was far too cumbersome for us to carry, so we
buried it, having first got rid of our bushmen allies. My boys wanted me to go
back to the Cape with it and sell it, but I was too much bent on my journey to
do this. The tusks lay buried for five years. Then I came and dug them up; they
were but little harmed. Ultimately I sold the ivory for something over twelve
hundred pounds—not bad pay for one day’s shooting.
This was how I began my career as an elephant hunter. I have shot many hundreds
of them since, but have never again attempted to do so on horseback.
