The Buffalo That Missed Me

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 71, Issue 261, 3 November 1928, Page 17 (Supplement)

The Buffalo That Missed Me

SLOW-MOTION STORY OF THE JUNGLE

CWdiffe Hyme Tells ©f a Forest Thrill

HTHE WHITE MAN as a rule, especially if he is a Belgian, does not 1 walk much in the Congo. But walking was always my strong suit, and the Equator docs not trouble mg. Still, walking beside my empty hammock did not make my bearers any the less keen about their-tip. My second head-man, Quablah, was a nailer over this. He had no brain, but he had crammed up five words of English, “Sar, I fit for dash,” he would say a dozen .times a day. He was very proud of that sentence, which was the outcome of a year’s hard cramming. One dav, however, instead of walking, I rode in the hammock. I hac been indulging in a dose of fever during the night, and in the morning had a touch of that " like-nothing-on-cart h feeling” which malaria gives one without extra charge. The two bearer boys, with the hammock pole on their heads, logged off a steady threjc-point-five miles to the hour, and the 12ft. high grass of the Congo Valley swished past the sides of the hammock with a noise like escaping steam. I was too seedy to smoke, and the mosquitoes and the other local wild-fowl enjoyed themselves accordingly. My gun, a plain, double-barrelled 12-bore, lay across my lap, and seemed to weigh a ton and burn as if it were red-hot. But that gun was the last thing one would shed. Travelling unarmed in the Congo Valley at that time was a thing that simply was not done. LIKE AN EARTHQUAKE. That old hammer gun was, you understand, more a baton of authority than anything else. The Belgians had eliminated most of the quarrelsome natives of those parts by the simple process of exterminating them. There were elephants in the bush, of course, but an elephant is about as dangerous as a tram-car if you don’t attack him first. Rhino were said to be ugly if they winded you, but none had been seen round there for a couple of years, and buffalo wore, so the local tale went, the only big risk. Well, I’m a nervous man, but I didn’t think that any variety of cow, cither tame or wild, was big enough to scare me. My only excuse for this view was that I was younger than I am now. So swing-swing went the hammock to the swaying of the pole on the bearers’ granite skulls, and swing-swing went whatever grey matter was left inside my heated brain pan. “Sar, I fit for dash,” or “He fit for dash,” second-headman Quablah reported every time bearers were changed, and sometimes they got the tip, and sometimes curses, according to performance. Then in the middle of one spell arrived earthquake and eclipse. I fancy I must have been dozing a hit at the time, because suddenly, without any warning whatever, the hammock-pole bumped with a hard crack on to my helmet, and the lower section of me bumped hard on the ground. Helmet, pipe, money, and other odds and ends that were riding with me in the hammock, went flying into the grass. The maltreated old gun I kept hold of, and that is where instinct came in. CARRIERS IN FLIGHT. Out of the tail of my eye, as I fell, I had a vision of my noble carriers, headed by Quablah, hooking it a dozen ways into the bush for all they

wjere worth. The boy who carried the chop-box took a fine toss over something, and evidently rather damaged himself, as he continued his retreat till he was out of my sight at any rate, on all fours. But, anyway, by the time I had scrambled to my own feet the whole crowd, of them were, out of sight, and the stage was clear for the next performer. Mark you, of course the whole thing was done seriatim, as I have described it. But what I have given as a slow-motion film really happened in two flashes, and the buffalo, which was the cause of the excitement, was coming on as fast as a railroad train. I was only just on my foot when he tore his way through the twelve-foot grass into view, and I had no time to shoulder the gun. But I loosed off both barrels from the hip as he roared past me, and put one spherical bullet and ong charge of No. 5 shot (which would carry like a bullet also) into his flank, just behind the shoulder at a three-yard rise. That seemed to me good work, and as much as any member of the cow family, tame or wild,, could need to bring about extinction. But at that time I did not know the Congo buffalo. By natural instinct, of course, I started to reload the gun at once. But cartridges were in in my coat, which was tangled in the thrown-down hammock, and took a lot of time to get. I may mention I did not loiter over the job. The buffalo, who in all ordinary decency ought to have been dead, was nothing of the kind. He was hunting for me. Presently I could hoar him charging backwards and forwards through the twjelve-foot grass as he did it. Also he was getting nearer and nearer every trip. My hands were sweating, and if you like to say they were a bit trembly as well I won’t deny it. I won’t even put it down to the demon malaria. We’ll just admit they were trembly.. Hands arc that way sometimes. But I had fumbled in two cartridges, and locked and cocked the gun in the nick of time, and got in a double barrel shoulder shot, with the happiest result so far as the buffalo was concerned. He toppled over like a shot rabbit. A CRACK ON THE SKULL. But if balled shot and bullet went one way, the gun and I went the other. I picked myself up after a bit, a good deal the worse for wear, and decided my shoulder was broken. What had happened was simple enough. The old gun was "choke-bored” in her first barrel. The bullet cartridge, of course, ought to have gone into the right and the shot one in the loft. A very rattled man had reversed the order. Why the tough old weapon did not burst Ido not know. It hold together, but registered its protest in a kick which is the hardest I have ever had so far. By the time I had decided my shoulder was bruised, not broken, the carrier boys turned up, and Quablah said, "Sar, I fit for dash.” Very unwisely, I smote Quablah across the head with the hammock pale, but as he is all solid bone above the ears, I merely broke that useful piece of wood, and did not hurt Quablah. He repeated his speech placidly, and—got his tip. For any gentleman with a nervous temperament I can offer a heartfelt recommendation to give the hunting of the Congo buffalo a miss. Let him take up lion or eHSphant shooting, or something quiet like that, when he finds himself getting a trifle rusty for want of gentle exercise.