pulling out and trying the new country toward Handeni where none of us had
ever been.
'Let's go then,' Pop said.
It seemed this new country was a gift. Kudu came out into the open and
you sat and waited for the more enormous ones and selecting a suitable head,
blasted him over. Then there were sable and we agreed that whoever killed
the first kudu should move on in the sable country.
I was beginning to feel awfully good and Karl was very cheerful at the
prospect of this new miraculous country where they were so unsophisticated
that it was really a shame to topple them over.
We left, soon after daylight, ahead of the outfit, who were to strike
camp and follow in the two lorries. We stopped in Babati at the little hotel
overlooking the lake and bought some more Pan-Yan pickles and had some cold
beer. Then we started south on the Cape to Cairo road, here well graded,
smooth, and carefully cut through wooded hills overlooking the long yellow
stretch of plains of the Masai Steppes, down and through farming country,
where the dried-breasted old women and the shrunken-flanked, hollow-ribbed
old men hoed in the cornfields, through miles and dusty miles of this, and
then into a valley of sun-baked, eroded land where the soil was blowing away
in clouds as you looked, into the tree-shaded, pretty, whitewashed, German
model-garrison town of Kandoa-Irangi.
We left M'Cola at the crossroads to hold up our lorries when they came,
put the car into some shade and visited the military cemetery. We intended
to call on the D.O. but they were at lunch, and we did not want to bother
them, so after the military cemetery, which was a pleasant, clean, well-kept
place and as good as another to be dead in, we had some beer under a tree in
shade that seemed liquid cool after the white glare of a sun that you could
feel the weight of on your neck and shoulders, started the car and went out
to the crossroads to pick up the lorries and head to the east into the new
country.
CHAPTER SIX
It was a new country to us but it had the marks of the oldest countries
The road was a track over shelves of solid rock, worn by the feet of the
caravans and the cattle, and it rose in the boulder-strewn un-roadhness
through a double line of trees and into the hills. The country was so much
like Aragon that I could not believe that we were not in Spain until,
instead of mules with saddle bags, we met a dozen natives bare-legged and
bareheaded dressed in white cotton cloth they wore gathered over the
shoulder like a toga, but when they had passed, the high trees beside the
track over those rocks was Spam and I had followed this same route forged on
ahead and following close behind a horse one time watching the horror of the
flies scuttling around his crupper They were the same camel flies we found
here on the lions. In Spain if one got inside your shirt you had to get the
shirt off to kill him. He'd go inside the neckband, down the back, around
and under one arm, make for the navel and the belly band, and if you did not
get him he would move with such intelligence and speed that, scuttling flat
and uncrushable he would make you undress completely to kill him That day of
watching the camel flies working under the horse's tail, having had them
myself, gave me more horror than anything I could remember except one time
in a hospital with my right arm broken off short between the elbow and the
shoulder, the back of the hand having hung down against my back, the points
of the bone having cut up the flesh of the biceps until it finally rotted,
swelled, burst, and sloughed off in pus. Alone with the pain in the night in
the fifth week of not sleeping I thought suddenly how a bull elk must feel
if you break a shoulder and he gets away and in that night I lay and felt it
all, the whole thing as it would happen from the shock of the bullet to the
end of the business and, being a little out of my head, thought perhaps what
I was going through was a punishment for all hunters. Then, getting well,
decided if it was a punishment I had paid it and at least I knew what I was
doing. I did nothing that had not been done to me. I had been shot and I had
been crippled and gotten away. I expected, always, to be killed by one thing
or another and I, truly, did not mind that any more. Since I still loved to
hunt I resolved that I would only shoot as long as I could kill cleanly and
as soon as I lost that ability I would stop.
If you serve time for society, democracy, and the other things quite
young, and declining any further enlistment make yourself responsible only
to yourself, you exchange the pleasant, comforting stench of comrades for
something you can never feel in any other way than by yourself. That
something I cannot yet define completely but the feeling comes when you
write well and truly of something and know impersonally you have written in
that way and those who are paid to read it and report on it do not like the
subject so they say it is all a fake, yet you know its value absolutely, or
when you do something which people do not consider a serious occupation and
yet you know, truly, that it is as important and has always been as
important as all the things that are in fashion, and when, on the sea, you
are alone with it and know that this Gulf Stream you are living with,
knowing, learning about, and loving, has moved, as it moves, since before
man, and that it has gone by the shoreline of that long, beautiful, unhappy
island since before Columbus sighted it and that the things you find out
about it, and those that have always lived in it are permanent and of value
because that stream will flow, as it has flowed, after the Indians, after
the Spaniards, after the British, after the Americans and after all the
Cubans and all the systems of governments, the richness, the poverty, the
martyrdom, the sacrifice and the venality and the cruelty are all gone as
the high-piled scow of garbage, bright-coloured, white-flecked,
ill-smelling, now tilted on its side, spills off its load into the blue
water, turning it a pale green to a depth of four or five fathoms as the
load spreads across the surface, the sinkable part going down and the
flotsam of palm fronds, corks, bottles, and used electric light globes,
seasoned with an occasional condom or a deep floating corset, the torn
leaves of a student's exercise book, a well-inflated dog, the occasional
rat, the no-longer-distinguished cat, all this well shepherded by the boats
of the garbage pickers who pluck their prizes with long poles, as
interested, as intelligent, and as accurate as historians, they have the
viewpoint; the stream, with no visible flow, takes five loads of this a day
when things are going well in La Habana and in ten miles along the coast it
is as clear and blue and unimpressed as it was ever before the tug hauled
out the scow; and the palm. fronds of our victories, the
worn light bulbs of
our discoveries and the empty condoms of our great loves float with no
significance against one single, lasting thing -- the stream.
So, in the front seat, thinking of the sea and of the country, in a
little while we ran out of Aragon and down to the bank of a sand river, half
a mile wide, of golden-coloured sand, shored by green trees and broken by
islands of timber and in this river the water is underneath the sand and the
game comes down at night and digs in the sand with sharp-pointed hoofs and
water flows in and they drink. We cross this river and by now it was getting
to be afternoon and we passed many people on the road who were leaving the
country ahead where there was a famine and there were small trees and close
brush now beside the road, and then it commenced to climb and we came into
some blue hills, old, worn, wooded hills with trees like beeches and
clusters of huts with fire smoking and cattle home driven, flocks of sheep
and goats and patches of corn and I said to P.O.M., 'It's like Galicia'.
'Exactly,' she said. 'We've been through three provinces of Spain
to-day.'
'Is it really?' Pop asked.
'There's no difference,' I said. 'Only the buildings. It was like
Navarre in Droopy's country too. The limestone outcropping in the same way,
the way the land lies, the trees along the watercourses and the springs.'
'It's damned strange how you can love a country' Pop said.
'You two are very profound fellows,' P.O.M. said. 'But where are we
going to camp?'
'Here,' said Pop. 'As well as any place. We'll just find some water.'
We camped under some trees near three big wells where native women came
for water and, after drawing lots for location, Karl and I hunted in the
dusk around two of the hills across the road above the native village.
'It's all kudu country,' Pop said. 'You're liable to jump one
anywhere.'
But we saw nothing but some Masai cattle in the timber and came home,
in the dark, glad of the walk after a day in the car, to find camp up, Pop
and P.O.M. in pyjamas by the fire, and Karl not yet in.
He came in, furious for some reason, no kudu possibly, pale, and gaunt
looking and speaking to nobody.
Later, at the fire, he asked me where we had gone and I said we had
hunted around our hill until our guide had heard them; then cut up to the
top of the hill, down, and across country to camp.
'What do you mean, heard us?'
'He said he heard you. So did M'Cola.'
'I thought we drew lots for where we would hunt.'
'We did,' I said. 'But we didn't know we had gotten around to your side
until we heard you.'
'Did {you} hear us?'
'I heard something,' I said. 'And when I put my hand up to my ear to
listen the guide said something to M'Cola and M'Cola said, "B'wana". I said,
"What B'wana?" and he said, "B'wana Kabor". That's you. So we figured we'd
come to our limit and went up to the top and came back.'
He said nothing and looked very angry.
'Don't get sore about it,' I said.
'I'm not sore. I'm tired,' he said. I could believe it because of all
people no one can be gentler, more understanding, more self-sacrificing,
than Karl, but the kudu had become an obsession to him and he was not
himself, nor anything like himself.
'He better get one pretty quick,' P.O.M. said when he had gone into his
tent to bathe.
'Did you cut in on his country?' Pop asked me.
'Hell, no,' I said.
'He'll get one where we're going,' Pop said. 'He'll probably get a
fifty-incher. '
'All the better,' I said. 'But by God, I want to get one too.'
'You will, Old Timer,' Pop said. 'I haven't a thought but what you
will.'
'What the hell! We've got ten days.'
'We'll get sable too, you'll see. Once our luck starts to run.'
'How long have you ever had them hunt them in a good country?'
'Three weeks and leave without seeing one. And I've had them get them
the first half day. It's still hunting, the way you hunt a big buck at
home.'
'I love it,' I said. 'But I don't want that guy to beat me. Pop, he's
got the best buff, the best rhino, the best water-buck . . .'
'You beat him on oryx,' Pop said.
'What's an oryx?'
'He'll look damned handsome when you get him home.'
'I'm just kidding.'
'You beat him on impalla, on eland. You've got a first-rate bushbuck.
Your leopard's as good as his. But he'll beat you on anything where there's
luck. He's got damned wonderful luck and he's a good lad. I think he's off
his feed a little.'
'You know how fond I am of him. I like him as well as I like anyone.
But I want to see him have a good time. It's no fun to hunt if we get that
way about it.'
'You'll see. He'll get a kudu at this next camp and he'll be on top of
the wave.'
'I'm just a crabby bastard,' I said.
'Of course you are,' said Pop. 'But why not have a drink?'
'Right,' I said.
Karl came out, quiet, friendly, gentle, and understandingly delicate.
'It will be fine when we get to that new country,' he said.
'It will be swell,' I said.
'Tell me what it's like, Mr. Phillips,' he said to Pop.
'I don't know,' said Pop. 'But they say it's very pleasant hunting.
They're supposed to feed right out in the open. That old Dutchman claims
there are some remarkable heads.'
'I hope you get a sixty-incher, kid,' Karl said to me.
'You'll get a sixty-incher.'
'No,' said Karl. 'Don't kid me. I'll be happy with any kudu.'
'You'll probably get a hell of a one,' Pop said.
'Don't kid me,' Karl said. 'I know how lucky I've been. I would be
happy with any kudu. Any bull at all.'
He was very gentle and he could tell what was in your mind, forgive you
for it, and understand it.
'Good old Karl,' I said, warmed with whisky, understanding, and
sentiment.
'We're having a swell time, aren't we?' Karl said. 'Where's poor old
Mama?'
'I'm here,' said P.O.M. from the shadow. 'I'm one of those quiet
people.'
'By God if you're not,' Pop said. 'But you can puncture the old man
quick enough when he gets started.'
'That's what makes a woman a universal favourite,' P.O.M. told him.
'Give me another compliment, Mr. J.'
'By God, you're brave as a little terrier.' Pop and I had both been
drinking, it seemed.
'That's lovely.' P.O.M. sat far back in her chair, holding her hands
clasped around her mosquito boots. I looked at her, seeing her quilted blue
robe in the firelight now, and the light on her black hair. 'I love it when
you all reach the little terrier stage.
Then I know the war can't be far
away. Were either of you gentlemen in the war by any chance?'
'Not me,' said Pop. 'Your husband, one of the bravest bastards that
ever lived, an extraordinary wing shot and an excellent tracker.'
'Now he's drunk, we get the truth,' I said.
'Let's eat,' said P.O.M. 'I'm really frightfully hungry.'
We were out in the car at daylight, out on to the road and beyond the
village and, passing through a stretch of heavy bush, we came to the edge of
a plain, still misty before the sunrise, where we could see, a long way off,
eland feeding, looking huge and grey in the early morning light. We stopped
the car at the edge of the bush and getting out and sitting down with the
glasses saw there was a herd of kongoni scattered between us and the eland
and with the kongoni a single bull oryx, like a fat, plum-coloured, Masai
donkey with marvellous long, black, straight, back-slanting horns that
showed each time he lifted his head from feeding.
'You want to go after him?' I asked Karl.
'No. You go on.'
I knew he hated to make a stalk and to shoot in front of people and so
I said, 'All right'. Also I wanted to shoot, selfishly, and Karl was
unselfish. We wanted meat badly.
I walked along the road, not looking toward the game, trying to look
casual, holding the rifle slung straight up and down from the left shoulder
away from the game. They seemed to pay no attention but fed away steadily. I
knew that if I moved toward them they would at once move off out of range
so, when from the tail of my eye I saw the oryx drop his head to feed again,
and, the shot looking possible, I sat down, slipped my arm through the sling
and as he looked up and started to move off, quartering away, I held for the
top of his back and squeezed off. You do not hear the noise of the shot on
game but the slap of the bullet sounded as he started running across and to
the right, the whole plain backgrounding into moving animals against the
rise of the sun, the rocking-horse canter of the long-legged, grotesque
kongoni, the heavy swinging trot into gallop of the eland, and another oryx
I had not seen before running with the kongoni. This sudden life and panic
all made background for the one I wanted, now trotting, three-quartering
away, his horns held high now and I stood to shoot running, got on him, the
whole animal miniatured in the aperture and I held above his shoulders,
swung ahead and squeezed and he was down, kicking, before the crack of the
bullet striking bone came back. It was a very long and even more lucky shot
that broke a hind leg.
I ran toward him, then slowed to walk up carefully, in order not to be
blown if he jumped and ran; but he was down for good. He had gone down so
suddenly and the bullet had made such a crack as it landed that I was afraid
I had hit him on the horns but when I reached him he was dead from the first
shot behind the shoulders high up in the back and I saw it was cutting the
lee from under him that brought him down. They all came up and Charo stuck
him to make him legal meat.
'Where did you hold on him the second time?' Karl asked.
'Nowhere. A touch above and quite a way ahead and swung with him.'
'It was very pretty,' Dan said.
'By evening,' Pop said, 'he'll tell us that he broke that off leg on
purpose. That's one of his favourite shots, you know. Did you ever hear him
explain it?'
While M'Cola was skinning the head out and Charo was butchering out the
meat, a long, thin Masai with a spear came up, said good morning, and stood,
on one leg, watching the skinning. He spoke to me at some length, and I
called to Pop. The Masai repeated it to Pop.
'He wants to know if you are going to shoot something else,' Pop said.
'He would like some hides but he doesn't care about oryx hide. It is almost
worthless, he says. He wonders if you would like to shoot a couple of
kongoni or an eland. He likes those hides.'
'Tell him on our way back.'