The Witch Doctor and other Rhodesian Studies Part 35

It appears that a hyena had crept up between the sleeping men, had sprung at the meat piled on the upturned roof, had misjudged the distance, and had fallen back in a heap upon Fernie. In its ineffectual attempt to carry off the meat it had dislodged a piece, which fell upon Black.

The friends re-made their beds, replenished the fire, and Black turned in again. Fernie, determined to get a shot at the hyena, should it return, sat up, rifle in hand, and watched for some time.

After a while he got tired of sitting up, so got back into his blankets again.

For perhaps an hour he lay on his back, holding his rifle in his hand, the b.u.t.t resting on his chest and the barrel pointing straight up into the sky. It was in those positions that Black remembered seeing man and weapon just before he slipped off to sleep.

How long it was before Fernie went to sleep neither had means of knowing, but both awoke to the sound of Fernie's rifle.

"What's up?" asked Black.

"Blest if I know quite."

"Did you see the hyena?"

"I think so, I thought I did."

"Do you think you hit him?"

"I really don't know. I think I must have been dreaming. I believe I let off the rifle in my sleep and then dropped it. My jaw hurts, so does my s.h.i.+n--d.a.m.nably."

"Do you mean to say you fired the thing into the air?"

"I expect so; why?"

Black didn't wait to talk. He jumped up, pulled on his boots and bolted.

As he ran he shouted: "Look out for the bullet!"

"Come back, you silly a.s.s!" called Fernie after him. But there was no reply.

For a little while he could hear the shuffle of Black's unlaced boots as he hurried away, but not for long, as there was a wind blowing in the direction which Black had taken.

From time to time Fernie called, but there was no reply. He became alarmed for his pal's safety, so got up and dressed. With a lantern in his hand he wandered here and there, hullooing.

When it became light enough he called the waggon boys, and all went in search of Black.

They hadn't very far to go. They saw him perched in a tree quite half-a-mile away. Fernie had to climb up and bring the poor fellow down as he was stiff with cold. He pick-a-backed him to the camp. A vigorous rubbing, a hot blanket, and a hotter whisky and water soon restored the patient.

He had a curious story to tell.

When he realised that Fernie had fired his rifle straight up into the air, he concluded that the bullet would sooner or later come straight down again. It might fall on him. Why run unnecessary risk? So he ran away. He thought he had time to pull on his boots, but no more. He intended to give the bullet ten minutes and then come back.

He heard Fernie call to him, but he also heard a sound which made him run faster and still faster. It was the movement of some invisible wild beast trotting parallel and very close to him. He stopped once. It stopped. Scared out of his senses, he ran on, and so did It. By a stroke of good fortune he collided in his flight with a tree; instinct made him clamber up; he did it awkwardly.

"It" jumped up at him as he climbed. Black, on the verge of exhaustion, continued to struggle frantically up the tree. He heard the crash of teeth as It's jaws came together within an inch of his leg. He felt It's hot breath on his flesh and a s.h.i.+ver ran down his spine.

He drew up his leg as the beast jumped again. He felt the heel of his boot seized in the creature's jaws; felt the full weight of the thing at his hip-joint as his leg swung with the spring of the beast. He clung to the tree for dear life. Something gave way. He wondered how much of his leg had gone.

Fortunately his loss was not so very serious; his boot had been wrenched from his foot--one of his patent two-compartment boots, and with it much skin from his toes.

The waggon boys, who examined the spoor under the tree, declared it to be that of a hyena, probably the hyena which had tried to steal the meat.

The boot was not recovered.

Fernie really knew very little about shooting--of dangerous game he knew nothing. I don't suppose it would have made very much difference, because he was a reckless fellow, quite without fear.

One afternoon he shot at a skulking beast and hit her in the stomach.

This beast was a female leopard, three-quarters grown. She charged him.

Fernie hadn't time to load again, so hit her with his fist. His heavy blow stopped her for a moment, but no more. She sprang again, and as she sprang she struck at him, half-scalping him, and scoring deep wounds in his stomach and thighs.

Fernie roared like a mad thing. Dropping his rifle he grappled with her.

She fought with the weapons Nature had given her; he, like savage man before the days of weapons. He spoke no word; the sounds he made came from the throat, not from the tongue--the raucous cries of a wild beast fighting for its life.

Presently Fernie tripped and fell. They rolled over and over in the dust; he, half-blinded, searching for her throat; she, biting and tearing at his flesh. He lay on her and pressed her to the ground; thus he got his grip upon her throat and held on until the end.

The end?

Fernie had killed the leopard with his hands, had strangled her. But what of the man?

A blinded, shredded thing, covered with blood and dust; his scalp hanging like a coa.r.s.e fringe from his forehead to his chin; his clothes in tatters; gaping, welling wounds everywhere. This ruin of a strong man stood up, gave one long, loud roar of victory, and fell insensible.

The waggon boys had heard the shot, they also heard that cry. Thinking their master had killed an antelope, they went towards the spot from whence they judged the cry had come. They found Fernie and the leopard lying side by side, and thought at first that both were dead. It would have been better so.

But Fernie wasn't dead. His hold on life was much loosened, but not yet lost. For a day or two he lingered, and then he died. His agony was awful. He couldn't move; blood-poisoning set in; he knew he had to die, and hour by hour he begged his friend to shoot him.

"Shoot me, Black. For the love of Heaven shoot. My G.o.d, I cannot stand it. Kill me, Black! Oh, do be quick, Black!"

Hour after hour Black sat near his dying friend. He did little more than keep the flies away. He was helpless. He didn't know what to do. He had scarcely heard of first aid, and they possessed no medicines.

One of the waggon boys searched me out and found me. I travelled day and night, but Fernie was dead when I arrived.

After we had buried Fernie, I think Black was the most alone man in the whole world. For him there was nothing left. He had aged much during the few days of his friend's hopeless lingering. Whenever he looked at me the tears welled up and trickled from under the lower rim of his spectacles. He couldn't stop them, he no longer seemed to try.

A man crying is not a thing for a man to see. I began to avoid him. I pleaded official duties, and hated myself for it. His obvious agony of grief became a burden to me. His whole being seemed to plead for help, and I didn't know how to give it; no one could give it.

Just at that time the South African War broke out. I had official notice of it and told Black. His manner changed, changed with strange rapidity; I couldn't understand why. It did not occur to me that this helpless creature saw opportunity in that war; but he did, and he seized it.

Next day Black said good-bye to me. He was almost cheerful. He was not the old Black. He seemed resolute, more a man, he moved briskly.

I never saw him again. I learnt much of what happened from his diary, which his sister sent me; the rest from a chance acquaintance in Cape Town.

He went south to Bulawayo; from there he travelled to Beira and s.h.i.+pped to Durban. In Durban he volunteered for active service, and was, of course, rejected by every recruiting officer.

In the end, an enterprising newspaper man engaged him. He risked nothing, because Black asked for no pay. Black went to the front immediately, as an accredited war correspondent. What his articles would have been like I cannot imagine, but he didn't write any. His luck was in. The very day he arrived at Headquarters a stray bullet hit him in the forehead and dropped him dead.

How strange it all was! A shot, fired from no one knows where and for no obvious reason, found its mark in the brain of a man who longed for death; probably the only man in South Africa at that moment who did long for death.