The crowd, which now numbered about fifty people, all clamoured for a turn, so the councillor handed the job over to them and joined the driver on the running-board. A disgraceful fight broke out among the crowd as to who would have first turn, and everyone was shouting and pushing and snatching the crank from one another. The uproar attracted the attention of the Fon, and he drained his glass and stalked over to the veranda rail, scowling angrily. He leant over and glared down at the road.
‘Wah!’ he roared suddenly. ‘Start dat motor!’
The crowd fell silent, and all turned to look up at the veranda, while the driver and council member jumped off the running-board and rushed round to the front of the car with an amazing display of enthusiasm. This was somewhat spoilt by the fact that when they did arrive there, the crank was missing. Uproar started again, with everyone accusing everyone else of having lost it. It was found eventually, and the two of them made several more ineffectual attempts to get the engine started.
By now I was beginning to feel rather ill and not at all brave. My hand and forearm had swollen considerably, and were inflamed and painful. I was also getting shooting pains across my shoulders, and my hand felt as though it was grasping a red-hot coal.
It would take me about an hour to reach the doctor, I thought, and if the kitcar did not start soon, there would be little point in going at all. The driver, having nearly ruptured himself in his efforts to crank, was suddenly struck by a brilliant idea. They would push the car. He explained his idea to the crowd, and it was greeted with exclamations of delight and acclamation. The driver got in and the crowd swarmed round behind the kitcar and began to push. Grunting rhythmically, they pushed the kitcar slowly down the road, round the corner, and out of sight.
‘Soon ’e go start,’ smiled the Fon encouragingly, pouring me some more brandy, ‘den you go reach doctor one time.’
‘You tink ’e go start?’ I asked sceptically.
‘Yes, yes, ma friend,’ said the Fon, looking hurt; ‘na my kitcar dis, na foine one. ’E go start small time, no go fear.’
Presently we heard the grunting again, and, on looking over the veranda rail, we saw the kitcar appear round the corner, still being propelled by what seemed to be the entire population of Bafut. It crept towards us like a snail, and then, just as it reached the bottom step, the engine gave a couple of preliminary hiccoughs and then roared into life. The crowd screamed with delight and began to caper about in the road.
‘’E done start,’ explained the Fon proudly, in case I had missed the point of the celebrations.
The driver manoeuvred the car through the archway into the courtyard, turned her round, and swept out on to the road again, impatiently tootling his horn and narrowly missing his erstwhile helpers. The Fon and I drained our glasses and then marched down the seventy-five steps. At the bottom the Fon clasped me to his bosom and gazed earnestly into my face. It was obvious that he wanted to say something that would encourage and sustain me on my journey. He thought deeply for a moment.
‘My friend,’ he said at last, ‘if you go die I get sorry too much.’
Not daring to trust my voice, I clasped his hand in what I hoped was a suitably affected manner, climbed into the kitcar and we were off, bouncing and jerking down the road, leaving the Fon and his subjects enveloped in a large cloud of red dust.
Three-quarters of an hour later we drew up outside the doctor’s house with an impressive squealing of brakes. The doctor was standing outside gloomily surveying a flower-bed. He looked at me in surprise when I appeared, and then, coming forward to greet me, he peered closely into my face.
‘What have you been bitten by?’ he inquired.
‘How did you know I’d been bitten?’ I asked, rather startled by this rapid diagnosis.
‘Your pupils are tremendously distended,’ explained the doctor with professional relish. ‘What was it?’
‘A snake. I don’t know what kind, but it hurts like hell. I don’t suppose there was really much use in my coming in to you. There’s no serum to be had, is there?’
‘Well!’ he said in a pleased tone of voice. ‘Isn’t that a strange thing? Last time I was on leave I got some serum. Thought it might come in useful. It’s been sitting in the fridge for the last six months.’
‘Well, thank heaven for that.’
‘Come into the house, my dear fellow. I shall be most interested to see if it works.’
‘So shall I,’ I admitted.
We went into the house, and I sat down in a chair while the doctor and his wife busied themselves with methylated spirits, hypodermic needles, and the other accoutrements necessary for the operation. Then the doctor gave me three injections in the thumb, as near to the bite as was possible, and a couple more in my arm. These hurt me considerably more than the original bite had done.
‘Made you feel a bit rocky?’ inquired the doctor cheerfully, feeling my pulse.
‘They’ve made me feel bloody,’ I said bitterly.
‘What you need is a good stiff whisky.’
‘I thought one wasn’t allowed spirits?’
‘Oh, yes. It won’t hurt you,’ he said, and poured me out a liberal glassful. I can never remember a drink tasting so good.
‘And now,’ the doctor went on, ‘you’re to spend the night in the spare room. I want you in bed in five minutes. You can have a bath if you feel like it.’
‘Can’t I go back to Bafut?’ I asked. ‘I’ve got all my animals there, and there’s no one really competent to look after them.’
‘You’re in no state to go back to Bafut, or to look after animals,’ he said firmly. ‘Now no arguments, into bed. You can go back in the morning, if I think you’re well enough.’
To my surprise, I slept soundly, and when I awoke the next day I felt extremely well, though my arm was still swollen and mildly painful. I had breakfast in bed, and then the doctor came to have a look at me.
‘How d’you feel?’ he asked.
‘Fine. I’m feeling so well that I’m beginning to think the snake must have been harmless.’
‘No, it was poisonous all right. You said it only got you with one fang, and you probably dropped it so quickly that it didn’t have time to inject the full shot of venom. If it had, it might have been another story.’
‘Can I go back to Bafut?’
‘Well, yes, if you feel up to it, but I shouldn’t think that arm will be up to much for a day or two. Anyway, if it worries you, come in and see me.’
Spurred on by the thought of my precious collection waiting at Bafut, uncleaned and unfed, I goaded the unfortunate driver so that he got us back in record time. As we drew up in the road below the villa, I saw a figure seated on the bottom step. It was my fat girl friend of the day before.
‘Iseeya, Mammy,’ I said, as I stepped down into the road.
‘Iseeya, Masa,’ she replied, hoisting herself to her feet and waddling towards me.
‘Na what you de want?’ I asked, for I was impatient to get up to my animals.
‘Masa done forget?’ she inquired, surprised.
‘Forget what, Mammy?’
‘Eh, Masa!’ she said accusingly, ‘Masa never pay me for dat fine snake I done bring.’
CHAPTER NINE
The Fon and the Golden Cat
My stay in Bafut eventually drew to a close. I had collected a vast quantity of animal life, and it was time to take it all back to the base camp, where it could be re-caged and got ready for the voyage. Reluctantly I informed all the hunters that I would be leaving in a week, so that they would not bring in any specimens after I had left. I ordered the lorry, and sent a note to Smith, telling him to expect me. The Fon, when he heard the news, came flying over, clasping a bottle of gin, and did his best to persuade me to stay. But, as I explained to him, I could not stay any longer, much as I would like to do so; our return passages were booked, and that meant the whole collection had to be ready to move down country on the prescribed date. If there was any hitch we would miss t
he ship, and we might not be able to get another one for a couple of months, a delay which the trip’s budget was not designed to cope with.
‘Ah! my friend, I sorry too much you go,’ said the Fon, pouring gin into my glass with the gay abandon of a fountain.
‘I sorry too much as well,’ I said with truth; ‘but I no get chance for stay Bafut any more.’
‘You go remember Bafut,’ said the Fon, pointing a long finger at me; ‘you go remember Bafut fine. Na for Bafut you done get plenty fine beef, no be so?’
‘Na so,’ I said, pointing at my vast piles of cages; ‘I done get beef too much for Bafut.’
The Fon nodded benignly. Then he leant forward and clasped my hand.
‘When you go for your country, sometime you go tell your people de Fon of Bafut na your friend, an ’e done get you all dis fine beef, eh?’
‘I go tell um all,’ I promised, ‘and I go tell um dat de Fon be fine hunter man, better pass all hunter for Cameroons.’
‘Foine, foine!’ said the Fon delightedly.
‘Na one beef I never get for here,’ I said; ‘I sorry too much.’
‘Na whatee, my friend?’ he asked, leaning forward anxiously.
‘Na dat big bush cat dat get skin like gold and mark-mark for ’e belly. I done show you photograph, you remember?’
‘Ah! Dat beef!’ he said; ‘you speak true. Dat beef you never get yet.’
He relapsed into a gloomy silence and scowled at the gin bottle. I wondered if perhaps reminding him of this gap in my collection had not been a little tactless. The animal to which I was referring was the Golden Cat, one of the smaller, but one of the most beautiful, members of the cat family to be found in that part of Africa. I knew that it was reasonably common around Bafut, but the hunters treated it with more respect than they showed for the Serval and the Leopard, both of which were considerably bigger. Whenever I had shown pictures of the beast to the hunters they had chuckled and shaken their heads over it, and assured me that it was extremely difficult to catch, that it was ‘fierce too much’ and that it ‘get plenty clever’. In vain I had offered large rewards, not only for the animal’s capture, but even for news of its whereabouts. With slightly less than a week to go before I left, I had resigned myself to not being able to add a Golden Cat to the collection.
The Fon sat back in his chair with a twinkle in his eye, and grinned at me infectiously.
‘I go get you dat beef,’ he said, nodding portentously.
‘But, my friend, in five days I go leave Bafut. How you go catch dis beef in five days?’
‘I go catch um,’ said the Fon firmly. ‘Wait small time you go see. I go get you dat beef.’
He refused to tell me by what methods he was going to bring about this miracle, but he was so sure of himself that I began to wonder if he really would be able to get me one of these creatures. When, however, the day before my departure dawned and there was no sign of any Golden Cat, I gave up all hope. In his enthusiasm, the Fon had made a promise which he could not fulfil.
It was a sombre, overcast day, for up there in the mountains the rainy season started earlier than in the lowlands. The low, fast-moving clouds, grey as slate, the thin drizzle of rain, and the occasional shudder of thunder in the distant mountain ranges, none of these things helped to make me feel any the less depressed at the thought of leaving Bafut. I had grown very fond of this silent grassland world, and of the people who lived there. The Fon I had come to admire and like, and I felt genuinely sorry at the thought of saying good-bye to him, for he had been an amusing and charming companion.
About four o’clock the fine drizzle turned into a steady downpour that blurred the landscape, drummed and rattled on the roof of the villa and the fronds of the palm trees nearby, turned the red earth of the great courtyard into a shimmering sea of blood-red clay freckled with pockmarks of the falling rain. I had finished my cleaning and feeding of the collection, and I wandered moodily up and down the veranda, watching the rain beat and bruise the scarlet bougainvillaea flowers against the brickwork. My luggage was packed, the cages were stacked and ready for loading into the lorry. I could think of nothing to do, and I did not fancy venturing out into the icy downpour.
Glancing down at the road, I saw a man appear at a trot, slipping and sliding in the mud, carrying on his back a large sack. Hoping that he was bringing me some rare specimen to lighten my gloom, I watched his approach eagerly, but to my annoyance he turned off under the archway and splashed his way across the great courtyard and disappeared through the arched door leading to the Fon’s quarters. Shortly after he had vanished, a loud uproar broke out near the Fon’s small villa, but it died down after some minutes and all I could hear was the rain. I went and drank my tea in solitary state, and then finished feeding all the nocturnal creatures; they all looked a trifle surprised, for I did not feed them as early as that as a rule, but as the Fon was coming over to spend the evening I wanted to have everything done before he arrived. By the time I had finished my work the rain had died away to a fine, mist-like drizzle, and there were breaks appearing in the low-flying grey clouds through which the sky shone a pale and limpid blue. Within an hour the clouds had dispersed altogether, and the sky was smooth and clear and full of evening sunlight. A small drum started to beat over near the Fon’s house, and the sound gradually grew louder. The door into the courtyard opened and a small procession marched through. First came the Fon, dressed in the most magnificent scarlet-and-white robes, striding delicately through the shining puddles. Following him came the strange man I had seen in the rain, still with the sack on his back. Behind him were four council members, and at the end of the procession trotted a small boy in white robes and minute skull-cap, beating importantly on a little drum. The Fon was obviously coming to pay me his last visit in some style. I went down the steps to meet him. He halted in front of me and put his hands on my shoulders, staring into my face with a most impressive sternness.
‘My friend,’ he said slowly and solemnly, ‘I done get something for you.’
‘Na whatee?’ I asked.
The Fon flung back his trailing sleeves with a regal gesture, and pointed at the man with the sack.
‘Bushcat!’ he said.
For a moment I was puzzled, and then suddenly I remembered the creature he had promised to get for me.
‘Bushcat? Dat kind I de want too much?’ I asked, hardly daring to believe it.
The Fon nodded with the quiet satisfaction of one who has done a job well.
‘Let me look um,’ I said excitedly; ‘quick, open dat bag.’
The man placed the sack on the ground in front of me, and I, forgetful of the clean trousers I had put on in the Fon’s honour, went down on my knees in the mud and struggled with the tough cord that bound the neck of the sack. The Fon stood by, beaming down at me like a benevolent Santa Claus. The cord was wet and tight, and as I tugged and pulled at it there arose from the interior of the sack a weird and ferocious cry: it started as a rumbling moan, and as it became louder it developed into a yarring scream with such a malevolent undertone that it sent a chill up my spine. The hunter, the councillors and the boy with the drum all retreated several paces.
‘Careful, Masa,’ the hunter warned; ‘na bad beef dat. ’E get power too much.’
‘You done get rope for ’e foot?’ I asked, and he nodded.
I unwound the last bit of cord, and then slowly opened the sack and peered inside.
Glaring at me was a face of such beauty that I gasped. The fur was short, smooth, and the rich golden-brown of wild honey. The pointed ears were flattened close to the skull, and the upper lip was drawn back in a series of fine ripples from milk-white teeth and pink gums. But it was the eyes I noticed more than anything else: large, and set at a slight slant in the golden face, they stared up at me with a look of such cold fury that I was thankful the animal’s feet were tied. They were green, the green of leaves under ice, and they glittered like mica in the evening sun. For a second we stared at e
ach other, then the Golden Cat drew back her lips even farther away from her gums, opened her mouth and gave another of those loud and frightening cries. Hastily I tied the sack up again, for I did not know if her bonds were really strong or not, and, judging by her eyes, she would not deal with me very kindly if she got free.
‘You like?’ asked the Fon.
‘Wah! I like dis beef too much,’ I replied.
We carried the precious sack up on to the veranda, and I hastily turned a specimen out of the largest and strongest cage I had. Then we emptied the Golden Cat gently out of the sack and rolled her inside, shutting and bolting the door. She lay on her side, hissing and snarling, but unable to move, for her front and back legs were neatly tied together with strong raffia-like cord. By fixing a knife to the end of a stick I managed to saw through these cords, and as they fell away she got to her feet in one smooth movement, leapt at the bars, stuck a fat golden paw through, and took a swipe at my face. I drew back only just in time.
‘Aha!’ said the Fon, chuckling, ‘dis beef get angry too much.’
‘’E fit chop man time no dere,’ said the hunter.
‘’E get power,’ agreed the Fon, nodding, ‘’e get plenty power for ’e foot. You go watch um, my friend, less ’e go wound you.’
I sent down to the kitchen for a small chicken, and this, freshly killed and warm, I dangled near the bars of the cage. A golden paw again shot out between the bars, white claws buried themselves in the fowl and it was jerked up against the bars. Leaning forward, the cat got a grip on the neck of the bird, and with one quick heave the entire fowl vanished into the cage, and clouds of feathers started to pour out from between the bars as the Golden Cat began to feed. Reverently I covered the front of the cage with a sack and we left her in peace to enjoy her meal.