Green Hills of Africa

socks.

  'Hunt now,' I told M'Cola.

  'Good,' he said. 'M'uzuri.'

  With the clean feeling of dry shirt, fresh socks and a change of boots

  I sat on the petrol case and drank a whisky and water while I waited for the

  Roman to come back. I felt certain I was going to have a shot at kudu and I

  wanted to take the edge off so I would not be nervous. Also I wanted not to

  catch a cold. Also I wanted the whisky for itself, because I loved the taste

  of it and because, being as happy as I could be, it made me feel even

  better.

  I saw the Roman coming and I pulled the zippers up on my boots, checked

  the cartridges in the magazine of the Springfield, took off the foresight

  protector and blew through the rear aperture. Then I drank what was left in

  the tin cup that was on the ground by the box and stood up, checking that I

  had a pair of handkerchiefs in my shirt pockets.

  M'Cola came carrying his knife and Pop's big glasses.

  'You stay here,' I said to Garrick. He did not mind. He thought we were

  silly to go out so late and he was glad to prove us wrong. The Wanderobo

  wanted to go.

  'That's plenty,' I said, and waved the old man back and we started out

  of the corral with the Roman ahead, carrying a spear, then me, then M'Cola

  with glasses and the Mannlicher, full of solids, and last the

  Wanderobo-Masai with another spear.

  It was after five when we struck off across the maize field and down to

  the stream, crossing where it narrowed in a high grass a hundred yards above

  the dam and then, walking slowly and carefully, went up the grassy bank on

  the far side, getting soaked to the waist as we stooped going through the

  wet grass and bracken. We had not been gone ten minutes and were moving

  carefully up the stream bank, when, without warning, the Roman grabbed my

  arm and pulled me bodily down to the ground as he crouched; me pulling back

  the bolt to cock the rifle as I dropped. Holding his breath he pointed and

  across the stream on the far bank at the edge of the trees was a large, grey

  animal, white stripes showing on his flanks and huge horns curling back from

  his head as he stood, broadside to us, head up, seeming to be listening. I

  raised the rifle, but there was a bush in the way of the shot. I could not

  shoot over the bush without standing.

  'Piga,' whispered M'Cola. I shook my finger and commenced to crawl

  forward to be clear of the bush, sick afraid the bull would jump while I was

  trying to make the shot certain, but remembering Pop's 'Take your time'.

  When I saw I was clear I got on one knee, saw the bull through the aperture,

  marvelling at how big he looked, and then, remembering not to have it

  matter, that it was the same as any other shot, I saw the bead centred

  exactly where it should be just below the top of the shoulder and squeezed

  off. At the roar he jumped and was going into the brush, but I knew I had

  hit him. I shot at a show of grey between the trees as he went in and M'Cola

  was shouting, 'Piga! Piga!' meaning 'He's hit! He's hit!' and the Roman was

  slapping me on the shoulder, then he had his toga up around his neck and was

  running naked, and the four of us were running now, full speed, like hounds,

  splashing across the stream, tearing up the bank, the Roman ahead, crashing

  naked through the brush, then stooping and holding up a leaf with bright

  blood, slamming me on the back, M'Cola saying, 'Damu! Damu!' (blood, blood),

  then the deep cut tracks off to the right, me reloading, we all trailing in

  a dead run, it almost dark in the timber, the Roman, confused a moment by

  the trail, making a cast off to the right, then picking up blood once more,

  then pulling me down again with a jerk on my arm and none of us breathing as

  we saw him standing in a clearing a hundred yards ahead, looking to me

  hard-hit and looking back, wide ears spread, big, grey, white-striped, his

  horns a marvel, as he looked straight toward us over his shoulder. I thought

  I must make absolutely sure this time, now, with the dark coming and I held

  my breath and shot him a touch behind the fore-shoulder. We heard the bullet

  smack and saw him buck heavily with the shot. M'Cola shouted, 'Piga! Piga!

  Piga!' as he went out of sight and as we ran again, like hounds, we almost

  fell over something. It was a huge, beautiful kudu bull, stone-dead, on his

  side, his horns in great dark spirals, widespread and unbelievable as he lay

  dead five yards from where we stood when I had just that instant shot. I

  looked at him, big, long-legged, a smooth grey with the white stripes and

  the great curling, sweeping horns, brown as walnut meats, and ivory pointed,

  at the big ears and the great, lovely heavy-maned neck, the white chevron

  between his eyes and the white of his muzzle and I stooped over and touched

  him to try to believe it. He was lying on the side where the bullet had gone

  in and there was not a mark on him and he smelled sweet and lovely like the

  breath of cattle and the odour of thyme after rain.

  Then the Roman had his arms around my neck and M'Cola was shouting in a

  strange high sing-song voice and Wanderobo-Masai kept slapping me on the

  shoulder and jumping up and down and then one after the other they all shook

  hands in a strange way that I had never known in which they took your thumb

  in their fist and held it and shook it and pulled it and held it again,

  while they looked you in the eyes, fiercely.

  We all looked at him and M'Cola knelt and traced the curve of his horns

  with his finger and measured the spread with his arms and kept crooning,

  'Oo-oo-eee-eee', making small high noises of ecstasy and stroking the kudu's

  muzzle and his mane.

  I slapped the Roman on the back and we went through the thumb-pulling

  again, me pulling his thumb too. I embraced the Wanderobo-Masai and he,

  after a thumb-pulling of great intensity and feeling, slapped his chest and

  said very proudly, 'Wanderobo-Masai wonderful guide'.

  'Wanderobo-Masai wonderful Masai,' I said.

  M'Cola kept shaking his head, looking at the kudu and making the

  strange small noises. Then he said, 'Doumi, Doumi, Doumi! B'wana Kabor

  Kidogo, Kidogo'. Meaning this was a bull of bulls. That Karl's had been a

  little one, a nothing.

  We all knew we had killed the other kudu that I had mistaken for this

  one, while this first one was lying dead from the first shot, and it seemed

  of no importance beside the miracle of this kudu. But I wanted to see the

  other.

  'Come on, kudu,' I said.

  'He's dead,' said M'Cola. 'Kufa!'

  'Come on.'

  'This one best.'

  'Come on.'

  'Measure,' M'Cola pleaded. I ran the steel tape around the curve of one

  horn, M'Cola holding it down. It was well over fifty inches. M'Cola looked

  at me anxiously.

  'Big! Big!' I said. 'Twice as big as B'wana Rabor.'

  'Eee-eee,' he crooned.

  'Come on,' I
said. The Roman was off already.

  We cut for where we saw the bull when I shot and there were the tracks

  with blood breast high on the leaves in the brush from the start. In a

  hundred yards we came on him absolutely dead. He was not quite as big as the

  first bull. The horns were as long, but narrower, but he was as beautiful,

  and he lay on his side, bending down the brush where he fell.

  We all shook hands again, using the thumb which evidently denoted

  extreme emotion.

  'This askari,' M'Cola explained. This bull was the policeman or

  bodyguard for the bigger one. He had evidently been in the timber when we

  had seen the first bull, had run with him, and had looked back to see why

  the big bull did not follow.

  I wanted pictures and told M'Cola to go back to camp with the Roman and

  bring the two cameras, the Graflex and the cinema camera and my flashlight.

  I knew we were on the same side of the stream and above the camp and I hoped

  the Roman could make a short cut and get back before the sun set.

  They went off and now, at the end of the day, the sun came out brightly

  below the clouds and the WanderoboMasai and I looked at this kudu, measured

  his horns, smelled the fine smell of him, sweeter than an eland even,

  stroked his nose, his neck, and his shoulder, marvelling at his great ears,

  and the smoothness and cleanness of his hide, looked at his hooves, that

  were built long, narrow, and springy, so he seemed to walk on tiptoe, felt

  under his shoulder for the bullet-hole and then shook hands again while the

  Wanderobo-Masai told what a man he was and I told him he was my pal and gave

  him my best four-bladed pocket knife.

  'Let's go look at the first one, Wanderobo-Masai,' I said in English.

  The Wanderobo-Masai nodded, understanding perfectly, and we trailed

  back to where the big one lay in the edge of the little clearing. We circled

  him, looking at him and then the Wanderobo-Masai, reaching underneath while

  I held the shoulder up, found the bullet hole and put his finger in. Then he

  touched his forehead with the bloody finger and made the speech about

  'Wanderobo-Masai wonderful guide!'

  'Wanderobo-Masai king of guides,' I said. 'Wanderobo-Masai my pal.'

  I was wet through with sweat and I put on my raincoat that M'Cola had

  been carrying and left behind and turned the collar up around my neck. I was

  watching the sun now and worrying about it being gone before they got up

  with the cameras. In a little while we could hear them coming in the brush

  and I shouted to let them know where we were. M'Cola answered and we shouted

  back and forth and I could hear them talking and crashing in the brush while

  I would shout and watch the sun which was almost down. Finally I saw them

  and I shouted to M'Cola, 'Run, run', and pointed to the sun, but there was

  no run left in them. They had made a fast trip uphill, through heavy brush,

  and when I got the camera, opened the lens wide and focused on the bull the

  sun was only lighting the tops of the trees. I took half a dozen exposures

  and used the cinema while they all dragged the kudu to where there seemed to

  be a little more light, then the sun was down and, obligation to try to get

  a picture over, I put the camera into its case and settled, happily, with

  the darkness into the unresponsibility of victory; only emerging to direct

  M'Cola in where to cut to make a full enough cape when skinning out the

  head-skin. M'Cola used a knife beautifully and I liked to watch him

  skin-out, but to-night, after I had shown him where to make the first cut,

  well down on the legs, around the lower chest where it joined the belly and

  well back over the withers, I did not watch him because I wanted to remember

  the bull as I had first seen him, so I went, in the dusk, to the second kudu

  and waited there until they came with the flashlight and then, remembering

  that I had skinned-out or seen skinned-out every animal that I had ever

  shot, yet remembered every one exactly as he was at every moment, that one

  memory does not destroy another, and that the not-watching idea was only

  laziness and a form of putting the dishes in the sink until morning, I held

  the flashlight for M'Cola while he worked on the second bull and, although

  tired, enjoyed as always his fast, clean, delicate scalpeling with the

  knife, until, the cape all clear and spread back he nocked through the

  connection of the skull and the spine and then, twisting with the horns,

  swung the head loose and lifted it, cape and all, free from the neck, the

  cape hanging heavy and wet in the light of the electric torch that shone on

  his red hands and on the dirty khaki of his tunic. We left the

  Wanderobo-Masai, Garrick, the Roman, and his brother with a lantern to skin

  out and pack in the meat and M'Cola with a head, the old man with a head,

  and me with the flashlight and the two guns, we started in the dark back for

  camp.

  In the dark the old man fell flat and M'Cola laughed; then the cape

  unrolled and came down over his face and he almost choked and we both

  laughed. The old man laughed too. Then M'Cola fell in the dark and the old

  man and I laughed. A little farther on I went through the covering on some

  sort of game pit and went flat on my face and got up to hear M'Cola

  chuckling and choking and the old man giggling.

  'What the hell is this? A Chaplin comedy?' I asked them in English.

  They were both laughing under the heads. We got to the thorn-bush fence,

  finally, after a nightmare march through the brush and saw the fire at the

  camp and M'Cola seemed to be delighted when the old man fell going through

  the thorns and got up cursing and seeming barely able to lift the head as I

  shone the flash ahead of him to show him the opening.

  We came up to the fire and I could see the old man's face bleeding as

  he put the head down against the stick and mud cabin. M'Cola put his head

  down, pointed at the old man's face and laughed and shook his head. I looked

  at the old man. He was completely done-in, his face was badly scratched,

  covered with mud and bleeding, and he was chuckling happily.

  'B'wana fell down,' M'Cola said and imitated me pitching forward. They

  both chuckled.

  I made as though to take a swing at him and said, 'Shenzi!'

  He imitated me falling down again and then there was Kamau shaking

  hands very gently and respectfully and saying, 'Good, B'wana! Very good,

  B'wana!' and then going over to the heads, his eyes shining and kneeling,

  stroking the horns and feeling the ears and crooning the same, sighing,

  'Ooo-ooo! Eee-eee!' noises M'Cola had made.

  I went into the dark of the tent, we had left the lantern with the meat

  bringers, and washed, took off my wet clothes and feeling in the dark in my

  rucksack found a pair of pyjamas and a bath-robe. I came out to the fire

  wearing these and mosquito boots. I brought my wet things and my boots to

  the f
ire and Kamau spread them on sticks, and put the boots, each one

  leg-down, on a stick and back far enough from the blaze where the fire would

  not scorch them.

  In the firelight I sat on a petrol box with my back against a tree and

  Kamau brought the whisky flask and poured some in a cup and I added water

  from the canteen and sat drinking and looking in the fire, not thinking, in

  complete happiness, feeling the whisky warm me and smooth me as you

  straighten the wrinkled sheet in a bed, while Kamau brought tins from the

  provisions to see what I would eat for supper. There were three tins of

  Christmas special mincemeat, three tins of salmon, and three of mixed fruit,

  there were also a number of cakes of chocolate and a tin of Special

  Christmas Plum Pudding. I sent these back wondering what Kati had imagined

  the mincemeat to be. We had been looking for that plum pudding for two

  months.

  'Meat?' I asked.

  Kamau brought a thick, long chunk of roast Grant gazelle tenderloin

  from one of the Grant Pop had shot on the plain while we had been hunting

  the twenty-five-mile salt-lick, and some bread.

  'Beer?'

  He brought one of the big German litre bottles and opened it.

  It seemed too complicated sitting on the petrol case and I spread my

  raincoat on the ground in front of the fire where the ground had been dried

  by the heat and stretched my legs out, leaning my back against the wooden

  case. The old man was roasting meat on a stick. It was a choice piece he had

  brought with him wrapped in his toga. In a little while they all began to

  come in carrying meat and the hides and then I was stretched out drinking

  beer and watching the fire and all around they were talking and roasting

  meat on sticks. It was getting cold and the night was clear and there was

  the smell of the roasting meat, the smell of the smoke of the fire, the

  smell of my boots steaming, and, where he squatted close, the smell of the

  good old Wanderobo-Masai. But I could remember the odour of the kudu as he

  lay in the woods.

  Each man had his own meat or collection of pieces of meat on sticks

  stuck around the fire, they turned them and tended them, and there was much

  talking. Two others that I had not seen had come over from the huts and the

  boy we had seen in the afternoon was with them. I was eating a piece of hot

  broiled liver I had lifted from one of the sticks of the Wanderobo-Masai and

  wondering where the kidneys were. The liver was delicious. I was wondering

  whether it was worth while getting up to get the dictionary to ask about the

  kidneys when M'Cola said, 'Beer?'

  'All right.'

  He brought the bottle, opened it, and I lifted it and drank half of it

  off to chase down that liver. 'It's a hell of a life,' I told him in

  English. He grinned and said, 'More beer?' in Swahili. My talking English to

  him was an acceptable joke. 'Watch,' I said, and tipped the bottle up and

  let it all go down. It was an old trick we learned in Spain drinking out of

  wine skins without swallowing. This impressed the Roman greatly. He came

  over, squatted down by the raincoat and started to talk. He talked for a

  long time.

  'Absolutely,' I told him in English. 'And furthermore he can take the

  sleigh.'

  'More beer?' M'Cola asked.

  'You want to see the old man tight, I suppose?'

  'N'Dio,' he said. 'Yes,' pretending to understand the English.

  'Watch it, Roman.' I started to let the beer go down, saw the Roman

  following the motion with his own throat, started to choke, barely

  recovered, and lowered the bottle.

  'That's all. Can't do it more than twice in an evening. Makes you

  liverish.'

  The Roman went on talking in his language. I heard him say Simba twice.

  'Simba here?'

  'No,' he said. 'Over there,' waving at the dark, and I could not make

  out the story. But it sounded very good.

  'Me plenty Simba,' I said. 'Hell of a man with Simba. Ask M'Cola.' I