Chapter Nine - Selim—Happy Days—The Lover’s Song—The Magic Doctor Soltali—Kalulu proposes to hunt Elephants—Preparations for a Dance—The Hunting-Song—The Elephant Hunters set out—The Scenes on the March—The Hunters’ damp—Ten Elephants!—Kalulu addresses the King Elephant—The King Elephant dies—Selim’s Conduct in the Field—Kalulu is astonished at Selim’s Prowess.
Selim was now happy; and next to being able to reach his own Zanjian Isle, and revisit the scenes of his childhood, and romp, as of yore, with the playmates of his youth, and enjoy walks through the orange-groves with young Abdullah, he could not have chosen for himself a more tranquil life than that which he now enjoyed with his friend and new brother, Kalulu.
For the bright Liemba River was beautiful, though brown; its crisp little wavelets, where they washed over stone and pebble in the shallower parts, had music for him, though he never forgot that horrible scene near the island, when the smiling face of Abdullah changed into one of horror and sank down into the depths, with his shriek echoing through the woods.
The banks of the Liemba became for him a frequent resort, for Kalulu had made it generally known to all that he was his brother, and no Mtuta under the King Katalambula might molest him. Hence, he wandered where he pleased, finding charms in the wild woods, and in the depths of waving grain, in the peaceful, still life that reigned around, in the music of the birds, and even in the harsh cries of paroquets.
The Selim, the brother of Kalulu, was not the Selim of Zanzibar, but was the product of him, refined and pure from the fiery crucible of the unusual hardships he had endured. It was the same boy, but not the same heart. He, whom we knew at Zanzibar, the gay, light-hearted, sunny youth, playing with the females in the harem and his playmates on the beach, but ever listening in wonder to the great, wise words and sayings of white men, was changed for the dreamy boy with the poet’s heart, who chose solitudes, forests, and the depths of tall corn-stalks to indulge in reverie, which we are too apt to ascribe to melancholy. Perhaps it was melancholy, a tender, soft melancholy, engendered by many reminiscences of a mournful nature, crowding together in the mind of a boy who had suffered much, but who had seen but few years. There was the death of a loving father and loving kinsmen, the tragic fate of Isa and Mussoud, the most narrow escape he had himself from death, and poor Abdullah’s narrow escape from a horrible fate. These were not the best kind of subjects to dwell in the mind of a boy of Selim’s years; but what aided to soften all these, and did much to lighten his burden, was his present position, the tender friendship of Kalulu, the company of the gentle Abdullah, the calm tranquillity of the life he was now enjoying, and the consciousness—which his perfect trust in the goodness of God created—that there was a God above, who was both good and great, and who would bring him in his own good time out of all trouble.
For many days Abdullah suffered from the wounds which the crocodile’s sharp teeth had made in his leg. High fever set in, during which time he was attended by Simba, and Moto, Kalulu, and Selim.
All sport was at an end for Selim and Kalulu while their friend Abdullah was thus suffering. Nothing of enjoyment was thought of, nothing could be thought of but their poor young patient, whose constitution was battling vigorously against the fever which threatened often to terminate his life.
And what a time poor Abdullah had! Instead of the soft, silken counterpane and feathered bolsters, and the fragrance of lime and orange of his own comfortable home at Zanzibar, here were a mud-hut, low roof of straw and mud, a goatskin for his bed, a low door of cane-stalks, through which the white sunlight streamed hot and glaring, voices of a thousand rats for music, and the bad smells caused by the indecent habits of savages, for the perfume of ripe orange and cinnamon. All these aggravated the fever and created hideous dreams at night. For food he had a thin gruel, which Simba made for him to the best of his ability; for drink, the muddy water of the Liemba or some pombe-beer. Despite these, however, his constitution triumphed; the fever left him, and the wounded leg, carefully bathed each morning by Simba, began to heal.
When convalescent, Abdullah would leave his hut at evening, pale and thin as a ghost, leaning on the arm of his true friends, Kalulu and Selim, to enjoy the mild air, and to listen to the songs of the Watuta, and the sonorous music of the drums. The sight of the pale and thin Arab boy touched the heart of many a maternal bosom, and many were the expressions of condolence which he received from them. He often heard these dark-faced women utter expressions which he had never thought at Zanzibar could ever be uttered by black women; and he was rapidly beginning to learn that women are the same all over the world, whether they are white or black, and that human love and kindness belong as much to the black as to the white, and are as often practised. And the outcast, despised negro race were rising daily in his estimation. Neither was Selim indifferent to the tones of sympathy he heard from them; not only did Kalulu win his friendship more and more each day, but the whole negro race was being admitted into his brotherhood.
These were really happy days. Abdullah was improving each day, and Selim was fast becoming as joyous a companion as Kalulu could desire. Inspired by the invigorating sound of the drums, and the lively chorus, he was compelled to leave the side of Abdullah and join in the dance. A favourite song of the Watuta was the boatmen’s song, which seemed interminable; but the chorus was so pretty, and had such a sweet, pathetic melody, that Selim joined with pleasure in it for its pathos.
The first and second verses ran somewhat in this strain:—
Down the brown Liemba,
The home of fierce Mamba (crocodiles),
We are gliding.
With sudden stroke and song
The boat is sent along,
Swiftly gliding.
We fear no fierce mamba
In the deep Liemba
While we are gliding;
Nor bush nor thickest brake,
Nor foe that would us take—
Swiftly gliding.
The fifth, seventh, and eighth verses are descriptive of the scenery on the Liemba:—
By waving fields of grain.
With song and loud refrain,
We are gliding;
While women hoe the corn
Till eve from dewy morn—
Swiftly gliding.
Lo! Isle of Ihata,
Blest Isle of Liemba,
By which we are gliding.
The isle was long ago
Blest by great Moshono—
Softly gliding.
Near that tree on yon plain
Died Moshono in pain—
We are gliding—
Burnt by dread Warungu,
Who fear no Malungu—
Softly gliding.
The ninth verse is somewhat superstitious:—
Sole on that lofty rock
Lives Moshono’s sacred cock.
We are gliding.
Now, boatmen, here cease to row,
Bad luck, to hear no crow!—
Softly gliding.
As I have said, the boat song is almost interminable; it describes every view on that beautiful river, each tradition that surrounds the hills, and memorable sites of battles fought and victories won; for it is thus that our history was kept before writing was known to us.
Another song, which was a favourite with the young men and maidens of Katalambula’s village, describes what love-making is known to the Watuta. For this reason only is it valuable, as illustrative of the mode of marriage. The following verses are sufficient as an example:—
Canst thou love me as I love thee?
Wilt thou not come and live with me?
My father talked with thine to-day,
Thy father did not tell him “Nay.”
Said he, “Bring me two score of sheep;
Bring me pombe in pots thus deep;
Bring me ten goats of the best class,
Thy son may take my pretty lass.”
I’ve built my hut of sedgy cane,
The well-thatched roof keeps out the rain,
The floor is spread with river sand,
The latch waits lifting by thy hand.
Thy husband calls, do not delay:
Come to his house ere end of day;
Put now thy hand in mine and come,
Come to Kiranga’s heart and home.
Selim and Abdullah heard numbers of these during the period of the latter’s convalescence, and were constantly amused by them. To sit under the great tree in the centre of the square, to hear the music of the drums, to hear the songs sung, and to see the people dance, was like going to a theatrical entertainment with us. Kalulu often sat with them, but not for long; the exhilarating influence of the music produced such an effect on his feet and legs, that while listening to it he found himself unable to restrain them.
As Abdullah got better and became able to move about during the day, Kalulu used to take him and Selim to the great Maganga, or magic doctor, to enjoy the conversation of the wise man of the tribe.
This doctor must have been at least eighty years old, for he remembered Katalambula as a child, and knew Mostana, Kalulu’s father, and remembered the “great, great” King Loralamba, father of Katalambula and Mostana. This was very old history to Kalulu, who could not conceive the number of years that had elapsed since Loralamba’s death, though the time could only have been between forty and fifty years. The doctor, whose name was Soltali, knew any amount of things that no other man knew. He remembered the time when the Northern Watuta, who now live north of the Malagarazi River, separated from the Southern Watuta, over whom Katalambula was chief ruler, for some pique that the younger brother had against Loralamba. He remembered many wars that had taken place between the Watuta and Wabena, and remembered well the incident of which the boatmen sang as they travelled down the Liemba, viz., the burning of Moshono, a great doctor, who lived on the island of Ihata. The Warungu came in great numbers, and were conquering wherever they went, until they came opposite Ihata. Then their cattle died, and their warriors died of a horrible disease which Moshono punished them with. Finally, however, they got across the river and landed on the island; the village was taken, and Moshono was carried to the plain opposite the island, and burnt alive near a great tree. But it seemed as if the Sky-spirit heard the words of Moshono, and stirred up the Watuta—all; every man who could bear a sword and spear—against the Warungu, and a few days after, the Watuta, under Loralamba, rushed on their camp at night, and there was an exceeding great slaughter. Only a few Warungu escaped, and since then they had settled quietly in their own country, south of the Lake Liemba, many days’ march from Katalambula’s.
Soltali was rich in this history, which, alas! is never destined to see the light; a history that were a man disposed to write it for the mere love of giving it to the world, and instructing it in the past life of this obscure corner of the world, might enlighten the learned of all countries in much that concerns the great races of Central Africa.
Soltali’s hut was a veritable museum; but it bore a striking resemblance to the rich men’s houses in England and America in this respect. What ducal castle or baronial hall is there, in England, but has its collection of deer, antelope, and buffalo horns; its stuffed lions; its tigers, etc. etc.? What rich man’s house is there in America which has not some trophy of its master’s hunting prowess? Soltali had his trophies, though, owing to his pitiable ignorance of taste, book knowledge, etc, etc, his trophies were not arranged as a Schwartzenberg of Austria or a Duke of Sutherland arrange theirs. There were horns upon horns of antelope, kudu, hartebeest, black buck, springbok, gemsbok, gnu, buffalo, and rhinoceros, and tusks upon tusks of polished ivory. But the great store of curiosities that he set the greatest value upon consisted of tails of elephants, horns of giraffes, eyelids of zebras, tusks of boars, paws of lions, nose-hairs and whiskers of leopards, claws of eagles, beaks of bustards and kites, wings of ostriches, scales of fish, dried eyes of ibis; all wrapped up in pieces of goatskin, each separate the one from the other. He had a great number of little gourds, filled with the calcined heads of the various animals he had ever killed, and smaller gourds, like phials, filled with the burnt brains of men whom he had killed in war. There were so many brains of Warungu, Wabena, Wasowa, Wakawendi, Wawemba, Warori, Wanyamwezi, Wamwite, Wakanyara, Wakokoro, and a number of other smaller tribes; for in his prime, when he fought side by side with Loralamba, the “great, great” King, Soltali’s spear was heavy, sharp, and sure.
Poor, ancient Soltali! who shall sing thy praises? Who shall tell the wide, wide world all the deeds done by thy mighty hands? Where is the Homer who shall arise and sing of thy prowess? Homer, and Virgil, and Tasso, De Ercilla, and Camoens are dead, and we have none left capable of conveying thy name to future generations. But be content, old man; this page, at least, of this little book will tell a few of the growing generation of true-hearted American and British youths, that such a man did once live as thee, oh, Soltali! and, perhaps, in an obscure corner of the British Museum, thyself and wondrous museum of monstrosities shall, embodied as it were in this page, rest a few years until they become a heap of dead, unintelligible dust!
At the end of about two months, Abdullah was so far recovered as to be able to go about alone, without the aid of any of his friends; but he had an unconquerable antipathy to the banks of the Liemba. The brown waters of this river, in which he was so very near being engulphed, inspired him with a nauseous aversion, having something of the effect of tartar emetic on his stomach, and he never dared, as Selim often did, to wander along its banks alone. When he became tired of the village he walked to the fields, or the gardens, where the pot-herbs, the lentils, the pig-nuts, and the beans grew. Neither forest nor solitude charmed Abdullah; the company of the nursing women, or the workers in the field, was far preferable.
One day, Kalulu proposed to Selim, and Simba, and Moto, that they should get up a party to make a grand elephant hunt, and, as an apology, said to Selim:
“I should have asked thee long ago, were it not that I knew thou wouldst not come; but Abdullah is so much better that he travels about the village as if he had never been bitten by a crocodile.”
“To hunt elephants I will surely come with thee. I have got my gun, which I saved from the Liemba, and I should like to try a shot at an elephant. Moto is a great hunter, and he shall teach me how to tickle the tail and hams of one; thou hast never heard him tell the story. Oh, it is such an incredible one! but he never tells a lie to me.”
“Does Moto say he tickled the tail of an elephant? if it is true, he has done more than old Soltali himself. Soltali has done some wonderful things with elephants too, but he never did anything like this. However, we shall see how he acts before a real wild elephant. We shall watch him—eh, Selim?”
“Oh, I shall have my eyes on him, depend on it; but when shall we go, Kalulu?”
“At daybreak to-morrow. To-night Soltali must sing the elephant hunting-song of the hunters, and must give each of the hunters a charm, since he is too old to accompany us. I shall take fifty men with me, so that we can make a strong party. If Ferodia catches us in the woods he would make short work of us, and my head would not remain long on my shoulders if he caught me; for then he knows he would be king.”
“Why, thou art not going near his country, surely! because I would rather stop here, if thou art. I want to see no more of Ferodia,” said Selim in alarm.
“Be at ease, my brother. I go not near him with the best fifty men that the Watuta can count. I go in a different direction, south-east; he lives south-west, south of the Liemba Lake.”
“All right; but really thou didst frighten me. My back fairly tingles at the thought of Tifum, and Tifum is with Ferodia.”
“Yet, my brother, thou didst hit him a blow in the face, and Moto—cunning man—said he saw it, and said it was well done.”
“I wish the blow had gone through his head, then my mind would be at ease, for that man is my bane—my Afrit. (Afrit is a bad spirit with the Moslems.) Even when I am at Zanzibar I shall think of that man.”
“There, enough, my brother; I will put one of my barbed arrows through his throat the first time I see him, for thy sake. Go and prepare thy gun, and bullets, and medicine powder, and to-night thou must attend to the song of the doctor, or thou shalt have bad luck with us in the hunt.” And Kalulu turned away with light hounding steps, which soon carried him away from his Arab brother.
At night—probably at the hour of nine with us, the moon being up—a long, low, rumbling roll of the largest goma brought the destined hunters, together with Kalulu, Selim, Simba, and Moto, running and chasing each other towards the drum stand. There were ten drums, and a boy for each, ascending in height from the smallest to the biggest drum; so that the boy who beat the smallest drum must have been about ten years old, and the boy who beat the largest drum was a sturdy youth of twenty, or thereabouts.
Pots full of pombe and plantain-wine were ranged a little distance off, from which the dancers and the singers could regale themselves when they felt disposed. For the eve of a hunting party’s march is considered a great event, second only to the return of a successful party with plenty of ivory.
The hunters formed a select circle round the drummers and the pombe pots; a larger circle, made by about three hundred people—men, women, boys, and girls—surrounded the hunters.
Each hunter had on a capricious head-dress. One tall fellow was very conspicuous by wearing a pair of buffalo horns; another had a rhinoceros horn on the top of his head; another had his head draped with a piece of zebra skin, which gave him quite a remarkable appearance by moonlight; one had a zebra crest, which made him appear as if he wore a Greek helmet; another had a goatskin over his head. Kalulu wore three magnificent snowy ostrich plumes on his head. Selim wore a turban. Simba and Moto also wore turbans. One fellow, next to Moto, wore an enormous black earthen pot on his head; another had a broad, wooden dish; but it would be wearying to enumerate all the strange things they wore.
The drummer boys struck up an interlude, which was a verse from the boatmen’s song—the chorus,
We are gliding,
Softly gliding,
seemingly giving them immeasurable enjoyment as they lingered over the word “gliding.” While they were busy with feet and lungs, moving about in a circle, a sudden silence prevailed;—the great Soltali, the greatest elephant hunter and doctor of magic of the age, arrived upon the scene.
A loud murmur of approbation greeted the extraordinary old man. The most remarkable of all head-dresses was on the head of Soltali, for he had the skin of an elephant’s trunk, the base of the trunk fitting his head, as if it had grown there, while the trunk, filled with grass, was stiff enough to stand perfectly erect, though perhaps it was stiff enough without. The weight of this must have been considerable; but the ridiculous vanity of men causes them to do strange things sometimes, and this act could have been nothing else than absurdest vanity. Hanging around the old man’s neck was a string of giraffe tails, whose hairs were blacker than ink. On his arms he wore wristlets and armlets of pure white ivory. In each hand he carried a gourd half full of pebbles, which he rattled every now and then with a horrible noise.
He first, after he entered the inner circle, walked around three times, staring at each man, rattling his gourds alternately, as he passed round; then walking to the centre, while the bass drum began to hum and murmur its deep sounds, he began to move his body to the right and left, each hunter sighing deeply in sympathy with the now fast rising murmur of all the drums in concert. Loud and louder beat the drums, until the noise was deafening, and the voices of the singers became a demoniac din; then lower and lower descended the voices and the drum-sounds, until nothing was heard but the pacific and low murmur of the bass drum and the low sighs of the dancers.
Then Soltali opened his mouth and sang, in the heroic vein, of his doings in the elephant hunt in the far southern lands, the streamy land of the Wa-marungu, in the hot swampy lands of the Wawemba, and on the broad plains of Ututa; of his mishaps and fortunes, his narrow, hair-breadth escapes, and his wonderful adventures, out of which the author of the present history might make his fame and fortune were he gifted with the power to translate into some kind of verse what Soltali said.
Though demurring somewhat at the necessity of translating at all what the old man said, the author feels compelled to give the gist of the charge he gave the hunters concerning their conduct when they should meet an elephant. He spoke authoritatively and well, and it is a pity that a better translator is not at my side to assist me in the translation of some of the Kituta polysyllables.
“Let the warrior Watuta, and the hunters bold
Heed and mark well the words of the Mganga old;
Let them behold these charms, these trophies of my might
Each of them reminds me of many a hard fight.
Should ye meet the elephant alone in a plain,
Seek not too hastily to give him the death pain.
Singly let none attack him - ’tis an unequal fight;
For the elephant is strong, the embodiment of might;
But surround him coolly, and carefully all,
Be ready to obey your leader’s slightest call;
Then charge on him, all shouting, and charge with your spears;
Let the stoutest and best of you aim behind his ears.
Watch well the unfortunate on whom he turns round!
He must run this and that way, and oft change his ground;
Ye others must tease him, and invite him your way,
Hamstring him, and spear him, and do what ye may.
Beware of his front! range on his sides and his rear,
Go all together, and let each man heave a sure spear.
Fast as he veers round, hasten at right angles away
To ’scape the elephant’s first charge is no child’s play,
For his stride is so long he swallows the ground:
One stride of his is as long as a hunter’s bound.
After a while he will get tired - heed well what I say,
He is never so dangerous as when standing at bay;
For the hunter too often thinks he is dead game,
And advances too near him, too eager for fame;
But be ye guided by me, and stand off afar,
And your good hunt so well done, ye will not mar.
Let the elephant bleed, let him fall to the ground,
Let him gladden your ears with his fall’s heavy sound!
Then think of the Mganga, the words he has said;
Be sure that his services to you are well paid!
Then will ye succeed in your hunt on the plain,
Succeed without loss, and succeed without pain!”
The author may not attempt further translations from the speech, or song rather, of this old Mganga or magic doctor, the Kituta polysyllables having tasked his powers to the utmost; but from his knowledge of hunting in Africa, he feels bound to admit that the old man had a sound head on his shoulders; and the band of hunters having heard his lengthy chant to the end, declared that they felt eternally grateful to him. On the conclusion of his chant, he delivered to each hunter a small portion of whitish powder, which we, who have been in his museum, feel confident consisted of burnt brain, mixed with wood ashes. But this charm, consecrated by the magic doctor, could not fail to render each hunter highly successful in his enterprise.
The pombe, or beer, next attracts the attention of the singers, and each singer incontinently sets to the agreeable task of guzzling, where the author leaves them until the morrow—the Kituta polysyllables and the pombe having fairly upset him for the time.
In the morning, at daybreak, without any of the formalities of muster or calling the roll, Kalulu, Selim, Simba, and Moto, left the village by the principal gate, followed by about fifty strong active young warriors, not one of whom could have been over thirty years old. The horn of the leading hunter sounded merrily as he blew his ringing blasts of adieux, while the party dived into the depths of the gigantic corn-stalks, and their friends at the village listened long and attentively, until the horn could be no longer heard.
Kalulu had a couple of broad-bladed spears, and half-a-dozen assegais, much lighter than spears, with long flexible shafts, besides a bow and a quiver pack-full of arrows, which was slung over his shoulders.
Selim, radiantly happy, walked next to Kalulu, as the path was so narrow that but one could walk at a time on the smooth, hard road, and carried his own gun—the “gun from London,” which Kalulu had found among the plunder, with its own special ammunition. It was probably a fine “Joe Manton” as the barrels were of fine steel, short, of large bore, and a heavy price had been paid for it by Amer bin Osman through his Bombay agent. It was one of those fortunate accidents that occur sometimes. Olimali might have had the gun, had not Ferodia, seeing its great beauty and superiority, specially reserved it for a present to Katalambula; and the king not caring, or not having any use, for it, had placed it among his treasures in his store-room; and Selim, accompanying Kalulu to the store-room, as a privileged brother, to pick out a gun, suddenly saw the beautiful little masterpiece of the English gunmaker, which his father had presented him with, and with which he had shot the greedy crocodile on the Lofu, while his sharp teeth were lacerating his slave Mombo’s leg. Could anything have been more fortunate? “Impossible!” thought Selim, as he had hastened to secure it, with the ammunition and the percussion caps. “Impossible!” thought he now, as he strode on after Kalulu, laughing and chatting gaily, and sometimes turning round to Simba and Moto with a gay remark, which permitted them to see his bright, happy face and sparkling eyes.
Simba had his own bright-barrelled gun, which he had as yet never parted with, besides a ponderous spear, which might have made Goliath of Gath faint with the carrying of it.
Behind Simba strode nimble-footed Moto, who also had his own gun, besides a couple of long keen-pointed spears.
Behind Moto strode the Watuta hunters, one after another, some of them armed with shields, besides their handfuls of spears and quivers fall of arrows.
Merriness is what distinguishes the conduct of all hunting parties, whether white or black, while on the way to the chase or the hunt. Pleasures unlimited are anticipated, and happy sport is expected, and this anticipation and expectation are what produce so many good jokes, and wit, and fun, and raillery, or, as the English call it, “chaff,” when the hunting-field has not yet been reached and all feel bright and fresh. The hours that precede the chase or the hunt form the flower-time which men’s minds love to remember and dwell upon for the unalloyed happiness which it furnished.
It is needless to describe in detail the ground the party traversed. Once out of the corn-fields, the pastoral plains spread before them, where young Watuta boys were seen indulging in the excitement of a mimic battle or hunt while they tended their fathers’ flocks. Here and there were little tracts of cultivation where women were at work hoeing the corn; and as they passed some isolated village, near the gate, under the trees, sat the nursing mothers, lullabying their babes to sleep, or the snowy crisp-haired elders sat on short three-legged stools retailing to each other the experiences of their lives, dwelling with fondness on some particular episode of their generally uneventful lives; while chubby, abdominous little children listened in wonder at what they heard, as chubby, abdominous little boys of white men’s lands do when a particularly interesting tale is told.
Beyond the plains and corn-fields, the cultivated tracts and villages, heaved into view the dark-blue line of forest—that forest which Selim knew, where he suffered, where he fainted, and laid unconscious. Finally, the party entered it, and they were involved in its twilight gloom.
A week’s, marching through the forest brought the party to the elephant hunting-grounds of the Watutu. The broad tracks, pounded and pressed, trodden compact and smooth as an asphalte pavement by the elephants’ broad, heavy feet, indicated too clearly that this was a common resort for the ponderous beasts.
Lengthy sinuous hollows, overgrown with thicket and shrub, tufted grass, and tall cane, spoke of clear but stagnant water being plentiful here, their ridges, clad with dense brush, ran in serpentine directions, and separated these swampy hollows from each other. Overhead were the leafy crowns of gigantic columnar trees, forming as they met close together a thorough shade for the locality, under which, undisturbed by any enemy, the elephant might cool himself during the fervid noon.
Pressing further on out of this swampy region, they came, about sunset, to a thin jungle, where here and there rose a giant baobab, the monarch of all woods. Choosing one of these great trees, whose foliage was denser than ordinary, the party proceeded to cut down the smaller trees and brush, to form a brush fence around their camp, for the centre of which they chose this great baobab. They built the fence solid, secure, and high, as an efficient protection against wild beasts and nomadic freebooters. They then erected their huts—placing four short pronged poles in the ground, one at each corner of a square of six feet; then two taller poles dividing the square into halves; over these two taller poles and the two shorter poles on each side they laid transverse poles, which rested in the forks; and over these again they laid laterally light sticks, sloping down each side, which they covered over with long grass, and in a short time they had a perfect miniature house. There were other kinds of houses or huts being constructed; but the following illustration will best describe the architectural knowledge of the Watutu.
After constructing their huts, some roamed into the woods to hunt for wild fruit, others to look for flat stones to grind their corn upon, others to procure sticks to make their fires with, others to get water; while others, again, scoured and prepared their pots to boil their porridge in. There were about fifteen huts in the encampment, some huts having as many as five for a mess, others only three, while others had but two. It is a noteworthy fact in African camps that, where the mess is large, the more important of the party are together; or that the most popular are those who prefer each other’s society to that of any of the rest; though in each large mess one may be sure that one of the members has been admitted only for the sake of utilising his services; and his folly and ignorance, or cowardice and unworthiness, are forgiven and borne with, so long as he is industrious and not idle.
Thus in Kalulu’s mess were Selim, Simba, Moto, and an ignorant and timid fellow, who was only too glad to be near the great, and who industriously strove to please them for the sake of the patronage which he received for his labour. Kalulu, of course, as chief, could command the services of all if he chose to do so, but none would have worked as well as the timid fellow who voluntarily offered to cook for him.
After the suppers were cooked and eaten, and their limbs were somewhat rested, and earth had drawn its sable mantle, chequered with the diamonds of heaven, over its head, and the dark foliage of the baobab began to be peopled with formless shapes and shadows, and the fires burned bright, and cast their tongued flames with splutter, and hissing, and crackling, the dispositions of each began to be exhibited. They squatted around a blazing pile, listening to an exciting tale of adventure, or a funny story, which makes men’s sides almost explode with laughter. What can be more enjoyable? Nothing. People, for the time, forget everything but the interesting present. Not one in such a position can be left to himself; for his little world is before him, and he must be drawn into its vortex of pleasantry and enjoyment, and forget what he selfishly thinks belongs to himself.
The desire of slumber came on by-and-bye, and each man crept into his hut, and on his own little pile of straw or leaves, drowned in kindly, healthy sleep, forgot not only himself, but his neighbours, his friends, and his tribe.
At dawn, five of the likeliest fellows were sent by Kalulu to reconnoitre the vicinity and the open, swampy ground near which they had camped, and where they had obtained their water for cooking the night before.
They had not been gone fifteen minutes before one of them returned, who, with a warning finger, imposed silence, and whispered the words “Kümi tembo”—ten elephants!
You might have seen then how quickly the looks of indifference were changed into one of exciting interest, how eyes danced gladly, and sparkled at the joyful news; how Kalulu’s hunter-soul kindled into raptures, and how Moto and Simba looked significantly at one another, and how Selim even felt a throb and a warm glow stealing over him.
Moto advanced to Kalulu, and reminded him of the advice given by Soltali to hunt one at a time, and said that while he and his warriors should single out one, it would be better that those armed with guns, viz., he and Simba, and Selim, should engage another, and so kill two. Kalulu at once acceded to the proposal.
The hunters, as soon as they got outside of the boma or camp, deployed in a long line, while Selim, Moto, and Simba stole quietly and quickly away on their own venture, in a direction considerably to the left of the Watuta hunters. All the natives had denuded themselves entirely; Selim and his two friends had but girded their cloths about their loins.
The natives thus deployed, and ready at a signal, moved forward silently, and soon they were joined by the four remaining scouts, who, ensconced behind the bushes, had continued to watch the elephants, who were seen slaking their thirst at a pool, and playfully tossing the water over their backs.
As the hunters emerged from this jungle into the cleared space near the pool, the elephants turned short round to look at the strange intruders, who were thus boldly appearing in their presence.
The hunters stopped also with one accord to survey the ponderous animals they had come to kill. What a sight this was! Ten such noble beasts, clothed with bluish-grey hides, with uplifted trunks, and great ears standing out straight in array before those fifty naked pigmies, who, had they not their sharp spears and their barbed arrows, would no more have dared to approach these magnificent creatures than they would have climbed up to the highest tree and jumped off, expecting to be able to fly.
They stood thus a minute opposed to each other; then Kalulu advanced to the front in the absence of the magic doctor, as the chief hunter, and with uplifted spear in hand, chanted the death-song of the elephant he chose should be killed. This was a picture also worthy of a great artist—the warriors in the foreground, the slight and nude form of the young chief in the centre, with his ostrich plumes waving above his head, as his body oscillated from side to side while he sang; and fronting him, about thirty feet off, a monster elephant, with his herd behind him, all looking astonished at the scene.
The words ran after this fashion:—
“Thou monarch of beasts, thou king of the woods,
Thou dangerous beast in thy angry moods,
Thou elephant strong, thou form of great might,
Behold Kalulu before thee for fight!
I’ve come from the green groves of Liemba,
From the country of old Loralamba,
With magic from Soltali Mganga (Magic Doctor),
The surest and best of his Uganga (Magic Medicine).
Then look at that sun, look at the pool
In which thou didst revel, and think so cool;
Look on that forest, and look on this grass.
The sweetest and best of this wide morass;
No more shalt thou see the sun or the pool,
No more shalt thou revel in waters cool,
No more shalt thou walk in the forest’s shade,
No more shalt thou delight in forest glade,
No more shalt thou daintily feed on the grass
Of the plain, or jungle, or this morass!
Soltali the Mganga cannot lie:
Young Kalulu is here! prepare to die!”
As he finished his song his head was violently thrown back, the right arm was drawn to its length, and the bright spear-head, flashing once, twice, white sun-glints, was buried deep in the elephant’s chest. A loud shout greeted the brave effort; and at the instant the elephant felt the keen sharp iron in him, he uttered a loud trumpet-note of rage, and charged, clearing at one bound several strides of a man.
“Be off, Kalulu, thou brave prince of the Watuta! Hie away young hero! Stay not to count thy steps, thou dusky chief! Spring out, my boy; run as thou didst never run before! Impel thy haunches on—lift thy feet clear from the ground; out with thy chest—set thy head far back! Let thy lungs inhale free the rushing air! Beware of a stumble, else the tale is ended! Ha! well done—at right angles now! So; see the elephant charges the empty air, and runs headlong after vacancy! Now, warriors, is our time, with a whoop, and the shrill cry of the Watuta!”
Such were the words that could be distinguished from the noise and tumult produced by the charge. Twenty spears had been launched into the elephant’s body to distract his attention, and had it not been for Soltali’s good advice to “turn at right angles away,” the elephant would soon have overtaken the daring young chief; but, by his dexterous and easy movement to the right, the monster had charged on far ahead before he became aware that his enemy had escaped him.
When he turned round he found the hunters like a cloud about him; he found himself isolated from his herd; the other elephants having charged in another direction in fury and fright to meet an enemy in another guise, and with different weapons. While the elephant seemed to take this all at a glance, a loud report was heard, which sounded like a volley of fire-arms; but he, unheeding the sound, charged again, with irresistible power, at his nearest foe, only to be foiled once more by the ever-evading, ever-shifting figures of his remorseless enemies. Again and again he charged, only to receive new wounds, an additional shower of spears and barbed arrows, which tormented him cruelly; until, fatigued with the unusual speed, faint from loss of blood, he stood stock still, confronting his enemies, defiant and still dreadful, though the spears and arrows in his body might have been counted by hundreds. Heedful of the prudent counsel of old Soltali, the Watuta drew back, but still surrounding him, awaiting his fall. They had not to wait long, before they saw his body oscillate from side to side, and the left knee bend, as if he were getting weak; then he staggered forward, rose up again, and finally rolled on his side—dead, crushing the spears in his side like straws in his fall.
Leaving the Watuta to indulge in their self-glorification, let us proceed to see how the other three, Selim, Simba, and Moto, fared.
Moto, as the three left the Watuta, drew alongside of Selim, and whispered some words in his ears, how to conduct himself, to reserve his fire, and to fire at the last elephant which would pass him, aiming behind his ears, which, of course, would be standing straight out, giving him an ample opportunity and a good target to fire at. Selim, faithfully promising, was placed behind a tree at the furthest end of the cleared ground in the neighbourhood of the pool. Simba chose one a few yards off, further still to the left, and Moto another tree twenty yards to the left of Simba; and in this position they waited the dénouement.
Selim could see the swaying form and nodding plumes of Kalulu, could hear the death-song, and with his finger on the two triggers of his gun, which was heavily loaded specially for this purpose, stood behind his tree waiting. Soon he saw Kalulu launch his spear, saw the charge and flight, heard the deafening noise, and while his heart palpitated fast, and his pulses throbbed, and his ears tingled, came the affrighted animals of the herd, charging in fear and fury by him. Obediently he waited, according to orders, until the last elephant was passing his position, then, stilling the heart’s palpitation and the wildly beating pulse, full of trust and confidence in the powers of his English gun, he deliberately aimed behind the elephant’s ears, and fired both barrels at once. The concussion knocked him down; but, while falling, he saw his elephant stumble and fall on his head in a motionless heap, stone dead.
Picking himself hastily up, and snatching his gun, he stayed a moment to take in how matters stood; and finding the elephants in full flight, two limping laggards behind, and Simba and Moto following, he began to load his gun again with equally heavy charges as those he had in it previously; and having placed the caps carefully on, and taking a glance of pride at the game he had “bagged,” he ran after Simba and Moto. His two friends he found firing, running, and loading as fast as they could; not a very hard task when the animals were so badly wounded. His nimble feet soon carried him nearer them, and after dodging and running as he had been directed to, as he was pursued by one or the other of the elephants, he had the satisfaction at last of seeing both stand still. Retreating a little distance from view, he took a circuit round, and then returned, taking advantage of every tree, and by great caution succeeded in coming behind a large tree at the distance of twelve paces from one of them. Lifting his gun, already cocked, to his shoulders, he took aim again behind the ears, and fired the two barrels once more, which was met with the same fatal result, for the elephant, after beating the air with his forelegs for a short time, swayed pitifully, and fell over, dead.
But Selim had no time to make these observations, for the other elephant turned short round and charged at the tree. Selim stood his ground until the tree had almost been reached, when, dropping the gun on the ground, he started off for another tree, the elephant in hot pursuit after him. To the right, to the left, forwards and backwards, from tree to tree, Selim ran, until the elephant, to his astonishment, suddenly stopped, the hind-legs doubled under him, the forelegs bent, and his head came to the ground heavily, and in this kneeling position the poor elephant breathed his last.
Selim had his gun brought to him by Simba, who lavished praises, almost fulsome, on his bravery and accuracy of shooting, in which Moto, who now came up, joined with heart and spirit. Simba, while he embraced his young master, would have it that Selim was the best elephant hunter known; there never was such an Arab boy before, who shot two elephants dead one after another. “And thou must consider, Moto,” said he, apologetically, “Selim is but sixteen; if he shoots two elephants, one after another, when he is sixteen, what will he do when he is a grown man?”
“True,” answered Moto, “when he is double his age he will shoot four one after another. Selim is a great hunter truly. I wonder what the Watuta have done. Whisht! hear their cries! Their elephant is dead. We must go to see them. Or do thou stop with Selim to watch these whilst I go to tell them what our young master has done. Say, Simba, how much money would the ivory of these three elephants bring at Zanzibar, dost thou think?”
“I know not. How many frasilah dost thou think there are in the three?” asked Simba.
“Somewhere about twelve, I should say? Twelve frasilah of ivory at 50 dollars the frasilah (35 pounds) would make how much?” asked Moto.
“I don’t know—plenty, I suppose,” said Simba; “but Selim knows.”
“Twelve fifties will make 600—six hundred dollars,” answered Selim.
“Six hundred dollars! What a pity we cannot carry it to Zanzibar!” said Moto. “I shall be back directly.”
Moto bounded away lightly towards the pool, and in a short time in the middle of the plain beyond he saw the Watuta in a group cutting and slashing at the dead elephant, with noise and excitement enough to frighten every elephant for miles around.
When he approached, the Watuta gathered about him, and Kalulu pointed exultantly at the dead beast into which he had driven the first spear, and Kalulu then asked what luck they had had.
Moto answered: “Selim has killed two, and I have killed one.”
“Selim killed two!” echoed Kalulu, with surprise. “What! little Selim my brother?”
“The same,” answered Moto.
“Eyah, eyah!” murmured the group, while Kalulu seemed lost in astonishment, and could not utter a word more.
“Selim stands waiting to shew them to his brother, Kalulu,” said Moto.
“Oh, I shall come. Why Selim is a hero, a lion, an elephant! Is he not, Moto?”
“He is a brave young Arab, and the son of an Arab chief,” answered Moto.
When the young chief started off, all but a few Watuta, who remained to extract the tusks, followed him to see the wonderful three dead elephants.
In the same position in which he had first fallen lay Selim’s first prize, with his tusks half buried in the ground. Kalulu gazed at the wide wound in his head, put his fist into it until it was buried up to the wrist, and then turned to Moto with wondering eyes, and said:
“Kalulu has seen dead men in his father’s village, pierced to the heart with the leaden balls which the rifles of Kisesa threw, but what gun is this that makes such big holes in the elephant’s head?”
Then Moto told him that Selim had fired the two barrels of the gun at once, at such a short distance from the elephant, that the two big bullets went into the head as one, and that this was the reason there was such a big hole, which quite satisfied the young chief.
Leaving ten men to extract the tusks, Kalulu proceeded to where Selim and Simba stood, close to the former’s second prize; and here, again, Kalulu saw the wide rent and savage wound in the same spot as that found in the first elephant.
Kalulu sprang on Selim’s neck, and embraced him warmly, while the Watuta gazed at Selim as on one they had never seen before, with surprise and unlimited admiration.
By evening the tusks had all been extracted from the elephants, and great portions of the meat were carried to camp, especially the feet, the hearts, and livers, and ribs, where, before blazing fire-piles, the meat was set to roasting, while the adventures of the day were rehearsed over and over, with new additions each time, until midnight of that eventful day came and sealed all eyes in deep slumber.
They moved further south, and in less than two weeks the party had killed twenty elephants, which so loaded them with ivory, that they were obliged to return towards home, unable to carry more.
