Tales of South Africa. H. A. Bryden

I never even knew you had been in it. What’s the yarn? It must be something out of the common if it gives you the blues. You’re not sentimental, as far as I remember.”

      “No, Jim,” returned Kenstone, “I never mentioned the thing to you or to any one else, bar, perhaps, two or three folks. It’s eleven years gone since it all happened. My old partner, Angus (he’s down in the Colony now), who was with me at the time, knows all about it, and I reported some of the circumstances to a Transvaal Landdrost when we got back. Otherwise I have never talked about the matter – I should only be chaffed, and it’s not a pleasant topic at the best of times. It gave me a very nasty schrijk (Fright) at the time, I remember. However, it’s all far enough away now; if you and these gentlemen would like to hear the yarn, as it’s Christmas-time, and we’re so well met, why, I’ll break my rule and tell you all about it. And mind, what I tell you are solid facts. You know I don’t ‘blow,’ Jim, or spout tall yarns for the benefit of down-country folks or bar-loafers at Kimberley. What I saw I saw, and, please God, hope never to see again.”

      All were as keen as mustard for the story, and Kenstone went on.

      “Well, let me fill my pipe, and give me another soupje of whisky, and,” (nodding a health to his hearers over his glass) “here goes: —

      “It was in ’74 that Angus and I were making our third trip to the Lake N’gami country. This time we had got leave from Khama to trade and hunt in Mababi and the Chobé River country; and we meant to push even beyond, to the region between the Sunta and the Okavango, if the fever would let us. We made a good trek of it across the ‘thirst’ – there had been very late rains that year – and even after crossing the Lake River we made good travelling well on towards the Mababi flat. We heard from the Makobas and Masarwas along the river that there was still some water standing in the bush on our right hand, that there were elephant in there, and that other game was abundant. It is not often that this veldt is accessible – from scarcity of water – and it seemed good enough to quit the wagon road for a time, and try the bush for ivory. Before reaching Scio Pans, therefore, we turned right-handed, and struck into the bush with one wagon – the other, in charge of our head driver, being sent on to the water, there to await our coming.

      “We had some Masarwa bushmen with us, and they were as keen as hawks at the prospect of showing us heavy game, and getting a liberal supply of flesh. Northward we trekked steadily through wild desolate country for the best part of one day, and outspanned by a desert pool for the night. Here we were greatly disappointed to find no spoor of elephant, although giraffe, ostrich, gemsbok, and hartebeest were fairly plentiful. Next day at dawn we again pushed doggedly on, Angus and I taking different directions, and riding some miles ahead of the wagon on the look-out for elephant-spoor. I rode behind a Masarwa at a steady pace all morning without finding the least sign of the game we wanted, and, after an off-saddle at midday, once more pushed on in a north-westerly direction.

      “Rather suddenly we came upon a klompje of giraffe, and as the elephants seemed very much in the air and we wanted meat, I rammed the spurs in and galloped headlong for the kameels (Camels. The Boer term for giraffe). It was desperately hot, and we were shut up in thick thorny bush in which not a breath of wind stirred, and I consequently had not got my coat on. The beast I rode for, a fat, fresh young cow, led me a pretty dance of two miles, hell for leather, at a terrific pace through the very thorniest jungle she could pick; and although I presently ranged close up to her rump, and with my third bullet (firing from my horse) brought her down with a crash, she had taken pretty heavy toll of me. My flannel shirt was torn to ribbons, and my chest and shoulders were rarely gashed about. Never hunt ‘camel’, gentlemen, in thick bush, without a stout coat on; that’s the advice of an old veldt-man, and it’s worth remembering. I ought to have known better that day, but I was not prepared for game at that particular moment.

      “Well, I stuck my knife into the cow’s back and found her well covered with fat, and the Masarwa coming up soon after, we set to work to skin and cut her up. Presently, having fastened about twenty pounds of meat to my saddle, and carrying the long, prehensile tongue dangling far below my belt, I saddled up, leaving the Masarwa, who had a calabash of water, to finish the job and wait for the wagon to pick him up next morning.

      “I myself took a sweep north-north-east, with the intention of working round to the wagon before sundown.