CHAPTER TWO. So in the morning, again, we started ahead of the porters and went down

So in the morning, again, we started ahead of the porters and went down

and across the hills and through a deeply forested valley and then up and

across a long rise of country with high grass that made the walking

difficult, and on and up and across, resting sometimes in the shade of a

tree, and then on and up and down and across, all in high grass now, that

you had to break a trail in, and the sun was very hot. The five of us in

single file, Droop and M'Cola with a big gun apiece, hung with musettes and

water bottles and the cameras, we all sweating in the sun, Pop and I with

guns and the Memsahib trying to walk like Droopy, her Stetson tilted on one

side, happy to be on a trip, pleased about how comfortable her boots were,

we came finally to a thicket of thorn trees over a ravine that ran down from

the side of a ridge to the water and we leaned the guns against the trees

and went in under the close shade and lay on the ground P O M. got the books

out of one of the musettes and she and Pop read while I followed the ravine

down to the little stream that came out of the mountainside, and found a

fresh lion track and many rhino tunnels in the tall grass that came higher

than your head. It was very hot climbing back up the sandy ravine and I was

glad to lean my back against the tree trunk and read in Tolstoy's

{Sevastopol}. It was a very young book and had one fine description of

fighting in it, where the French take the redoubt, and I thought about

Tolstoy and about what a great advantage an experience of war was to a

writer. It was one of the major subjects and certainly one of the hardest to

write truly of, and those writers who had not seen it were always very

jealous and tried to make it seem unimportant, or abnormal, or a disease as

a subject, while, really, it was just something quite irreplaceable that

they had missed. Then Sevastopol made me think of the Boulevard Sevastopol

in Paris, about riding a bicycle down it in the rain on the way home from

Strassburg and the slipperiness of the rails of the tram cars and the

feeling of riding on greasy, slippery asphalt and cobble stones in traffic

in the rain, and how we had nearly lived on the Boulevard du Temple that

time, and I remembered the look of that apartment, how it was arranged, and

the wall paper, and instead we had taken the upstairs of the pavilion in

Notre Dame des Champs in the courtyard with the sawmill {(and the sudden

whine of the saw, the smell of sawdust and the chestnut tree over the roof

with a mad woman downstairs)}, and the year worrying about money {(all of

the stories back in the post that came in through a slit in the saw-mill

door, with notes of rejection that would never call them stories, but always

anecdotes, sketches, conies, etc. They did not want them, and we lived on

poireaux and drank cahors and water)}, and how fine the fountains were at

the Place de L'Observatoire ({water sheen rippling on the bronze of horses'

manes, bronze breasts and shoulders, green under thin-flowing} {water)}, and

when they put up the bust of Flaubert in the Luxembourg on the short cut

through the gardens on the way to the rue Soufflot {(one that we believed

in, loved without criticism, heavy now in stone as an idol should be)}. He

had not seen war but he had seen a revolution and the Commune, and a

revolution is much the best if you do not become bigoted because every one

speaks the same language. Just as civil war is the best war for a writer,

the most complete. Stendhal had seen a war and Napoleon taught him to write.

He was teaching everybody then; but no one else learned. Dostoevski was made

by being sent to Siberia. Writers are forged in injustice as a sword is

forged. I wondered if it would make a writer of him, give him the necessary

shock to cut the over-flow of words and give him a sense of proportion, if

they sent Tom Wolfe to Siberia or to the Dry Tortugas. Maybe it would and

maybe it wouldn't. He seemed sad, really, like Camera. Tolstoy was a small

man. Joyce was of medium height and he wore his eyes out. And that last

night, drunk, with Joyce and the thing he kept quoting from Edgar Quinet,

'Fraiche et rose comme au jour de la bataille'. I didn't have it right I

knew. And when you saw him he would take up a conversation interrupted three

years before. It was nice to see a great writer in our time.

What I had to do was work. I did not care, particularly, how it all

came out. I did not take my own life seriously any more, any one else's

life, yes, but not mine. They all wanted something that I did not want and I

would get it without wanting it, if I worked. To work was the only thing, it

was the one thing that always made you feel good, and in the meantime it was

my own damned life and I would lead it where and how I pleased. And where I

had led it now pleased me very much. This was a better sky than Italy. The

hell it was. The best sky was in Italy and Spain and Northern Michigan in

the fall and in the fall in the Gulf off Cuba. You could beat this sky; but

not the country.

All I wanted to do now was get back to Africa. We had not left it, yet,

but when I would wake in the night I would lie, listening, homesick for it

already.

Now, looking out the tunnel of trees over the ravine at the sky with

white clouds moving across in the wind, I loved the country so that I was

happy as you are after you have been with a woman that you really love,

when, empty, you feel it welling up again and there it is and you can never

have it all and yet what there is, now, you can have, and you want more and

more, to have, and be, and live in, to possess now again for always, for

that long, sudden-ended always, making time stand still, sometime so very

still that afterwards you wait to hear it move, and, < it is slow in

starting. But you are not alone, because if you have ever really loved her

happy and untragic, she loves you always, no matter whom she loves nor where

she goes she loves you more. So if you have loved some woman and some

country you are very fortunate and, if you die afterwards, it makes no

difference. Now, being in Africa, I was hungry for more of it, the changes

of the seasons, the rains with no need to travel, the discomforts that you

paid to make it real, the names of the trees, of the small animals, and all

the birds, to know the language and have time to be in it and to move

slowly. I have loved country all my life, the country was always better than

the people. I could only care about people a very few at a time.

P.O.M. was sleeping. She was always lovely to look at asleep, sleeping

quietly, close curled like an animal, with nothing of the being dead look

that Karl had asleep. Pop slept quietly too, you could see his soul was

close in his body. His body no longer housed him fittingly. It had gone on

and changed, thickening here, losing its lines, bloating a little there, but

inside he was young and lean and tall and hard as when he galloped lion on

the plain below Wami, and the pouches under his eyes were all outside, so

that now I saw him asleep the way P.O.M. saw him always. M'Cola was an old

man asleep, without history and without mystery. Droopy did not sleep. He

sat on his heels and watched for the safari.

We saw them coming a long way off. At first the boxes just showed above

the high grass, then a line of heads, then they were in a hollow, and there

was only the point of a spear in the sun, then they came up a rise of ground

and I could see the strung out line coming towards us. They had gone a

little too far to the left and Droopy waved to signal them toward us. They

made camp, Pop warning them to be quiet, and we sat under the dining tent

and were comfortable in the chairs and talked. That night we hunted and saw

nothing. The next morning we hunted and saw nothing and the next evening the

same. It was very interesting but there were no results. The wind blew hard

from the east and the ground was broken in short ridges of hills coming down

close {from} the forest so you could not get above it without sending your

scent on ahead of you on the wind to warn everything. You could not see into

the sun in the evening, nor on the heavy shadowed hillsides to the west,

beyond which the sun was setting at the time the rhino would be coming out

of the forest, so all the country to the westward was a loss in the evening

and in the country we could hunt we found nothing. Meat came in from Karl's

camp by some porters we sent back. They came in carrying quarters of tommy,

grant, and wildebeeste, dusty, the meat seared dry by the sun, and the

porters were happy, crouched around their fires roasting the meat on sticks.

Pop was puzzled why the rhino were all gone. Each day we had seen less and

we discussed whether it could be the full moon, that they fed out at night

and were back in the forest in the morning before it was light, or that they

winded us, or heard the men, and were simply shy and kept in the forest, or

what was it? ' Me putting out the theories, Pop pricking them with his wit,

sometimes considering them from politeness, sometimes with interest, like

the one about the moon.

We went to bed early and in the night it rained a little, not a real

rain but a shower from the mountains, and in the morning we were up before

daylight and had climbed up to the top of the steep grassy ridge that looked

down on to the camp, on to the ravine of the river bed, and across to the

steep opposite bank of the stream, and from where we could see all the hilly

slopes and the edge of the forest. It was not yet light when some geese flew

overhead and the light was still too grey to be able to see the edge of the

forest clearly in the glasses. We had scouts out on three different hill

tops and we were waiting for it to be light enough for us to see them if

they signalled.

Then Pop said, 'Look at that son of a bitch', and shouted at M'Cola to

bring the rifles. M'Cola went jumping down the hill, and across the stream,

directly opposite us, a rhino was running with a quick trot along the top of

the bank. As we watched he speeded up and came, fast trotting, angling down

across the face of the bank. He was a muddy red, his horn showed clearly,

and there was nothing ponderous in his quick, purposeful movement. I was

very excited at seeing him.

'He'll cross the stream, ' Pop said. 'He's shootable.'

M'Cola put the Springfield in my hand and I opened it to make sure I

had solids. The Rhino was out of sight now but I could see the shaking of

the high grass.

'How far would you call it? '

'All of three hundred.'

'I'll bust the son of a bitch.'

I was watching, freezing myself deliberately inside, stopping the

excitement as you close a valve, going into that impersonal state you shoot

from.

He showed, trotting into the shallow, boulder-filled stream. Thinking

of one thing, that the shot was perfectly possible, but that I must lead him

enough, must get ahead, I got on him, then well ahead of him, and squeezed

off. I heard the {whonk} of the bullet and, from his trot, he seemed to

explode forward. With a whooshing snort he smashed ahead, splashing water

and snorting. I shot again and raised a little column of water behind him,

and shot again as he went into the grass; behind him again.

'Piga, ' M'Cola said. 'Piga! '

Droopy agreed.

'Did you. hit him? ' Pop said.

'Absolutely, ' I said. 'I think I've got him.'

Droopy was running and I re-loaded and ran off after him. Half the camp

was strung out across the hills waving and yelling. The rhino had come in

right below where they were and gone on up the valley towards where the

forest came close down into the head of the valley.

Pop and P.O.M. came up. Pop with his big gun and M'Cola carrying mine.

'Droopy will get the tracks, ' Pop said. 'M'Cola swears you hit him.'

'Piga! ' M'Cola said.

'He snorted like a steam engine, ' P.O.M. said. 'Didn't he look

wonderful going along there? '

'He was late getting home with the milk, ' Pop said. 'Are you {sure} you

hit him? It was a godawful long shot.'

'I {know} I hit him. I'm {pretty} sure I've killed him.'

'Don't tell any one if you did, ' Pop said. 'They'll never believe you.

Look! Droopy's got blood.'

Below, in the high grass, Droop was holding up a grass blade towards

us. Then, stooped, he went on trailing fast by the blood spoor.

'Piga, ' M'Cola said. 'M'uzuri! '

'We'll keep up above where we can see if he makes a break, ' Pop said.

'Look at Droopy.'

Droop had removed his fez and held it in his hand.

'That's all the precautions he needs, ' Pop said. 'We bring up a couple

of heavy guns and Droopy goes in after him with one article less of

clothing.'

Below us Droopy and his partner who was trailing with him had stopped.

Droopy held up his hand.

'They hear him, ' Pop said. 'Come on.'

We started toward them. Droopy came toward us and spoke to Pop.

'He's in there, ' Pop whispered. 'They can hear the tick birds. One of

the boys says he heard the faro, too. We'll go in against the wind. You go

ahead with Droopy. Let the Memsahib stay behind me. Take the big gun. All

right.'

The rhino was in high grass, somewhere in there behind some bushes. As

we went forward we heard a deep, moaning sort of groan. Droopy looked around

at me and grinned. The noise came again, ending this time like a

blood-choked sigh. Droopy was laughing. 'Faro, ' he whispered and put his

hand palm open on the side of his head in the gesture that means to go to

sleep. Then in a jerky-flighted, sharp-beaked little flock we saw the tick

birds rise and fly away. We knew where he was and, as we went slowly

forward, parting the high grass, we saw him. He was on his side, dead.

'Better shoot him once to make sure, ' Pop said. M'Cola handed me the

Springfield he had been carrying. I noticed it was cocked, looked at M'Cola,

furious with him, kneeled down and shot the rhino in the sticking place. He

never moved. Droopy shook my hand and so did M'Cola.

'He had that damned Springfield cocked, ' I said to Pop. The cocked gun,

behind my back, made me black angry.

That meant nothing to M'Cola. He was very happy, stroking the rhino's

horn, measuring it with his fingers spread, looking for the bullet hole.

'It's on the side he's lying on, ' I said.

'You should have seen him when he was protecting Mama, ' Pop said.

'That's why he had the gun cocked.'

'Can he shoot? '

'No, ' Pop said. 'But he would.'

'Shoot me in the pants, ' I said. 'Romantic bastard.' When the whole

outfit came up, we rolled the rhino into a sort of kneeling position and cut

away the grass to take some pictures. The bullet hole was fairly high in the

back, a little behind the lungs.

'That was a hell of a shot, ' Pop said. 'A hell of a shot. Don't ever

tell any one you made that one.'

'You'll have to give me a certificate.'

'That would just make us both liars. They're a strange beast, aren't

they? '

There he was, long-hulked, heavy-sided, prehistoric looking, the hide

like vulcanized rubber and faintly transparent looking, scarred with a badly

healed horn wound that the birds had pecked at, his tail thick, round, and

pointed, flat many-legged ticks crawling on him, his ears fringed with hair,

tiny pig eyes, moss growing on the base of his horn that grew out forward

from his nose. M'Cola looked at him and shook his head. I agreed with him.

This was the hell of an animal.

'How is his horn? '

'It isn't bad, ' Pop said. 'It's nothing extra. That was a hell of a

shot you made on him though, brother.'

'M'Cola's pleased with it, ' I said.

'You're pretty pleased with it yourself, ' P.O.M. said.

'I'm crazy about it, ' I said. 'But don't let me start on it. Don't

worry about how I feel about it. I can wake up and think about that any

night.'

'And you're a good tracker, and a hell of a fine bird shot, too, ' Pop

said. 'Tell us the rest of that.'

'Lay off me. I only said that once when I was drunk.'

'Once, ' said P.O.M. 'Doesn't he tell us that every night? '

'By God, I {am} a good bird shot.'

'Amazing, ' said Pop. 'I never would have thought it. What else is it

you do? '

'Oh, go to hell.'

'Mustn't ever let him realize what a shot that was or he'll get

unbearable, ' Pop said to P.O.M.

'M'Cola and I know, ' I said.

M'Cola came up. 'M'uzuri, B'wana, ' he said. 'M'uzuri sana.'

'He thinks you did it on purpose, ' Pop said.

'Don't you ever tell him different.'

'Piga m'uzuri, ' M'Cola said. 'M'uzuri.'

'I believe he feels just the way you do about it, ' Pop said.

'He's my pal.'

'I believe he is, you know, ' Pop said.

On our way back across country to our main camp I made a fancy shot on

a reedbuck at about two hundred yards, offhand, breaking his neck at the

base of the skull. M'Cola was very pleased and Droopy was delighted.

'We've got to put a stop to him, ' Pop said to P.O.M. 'Where did you

shoot for, really? '

'In the neck, ' I lied. I had held full on the centre of the shoulder.

'It was awfully pretty, ' P.O.M. said. The bullet had made a crack when

it hit like a bat swung against a fast ball and the buck had collapsed

without a move.

'I think he's a damned liar, ' Pop said.

'None of us great shots is appreciated. Wait till we're gone.'

'His idea of being appreciated is for us to carry him on our

shoulders, ' Pop said. 'That rhino shot has ruined him.'

'All right. You watch from now on. Hell, I've shot well the whole

time.'

'I seem to remember a grant of some sort, ' Pop was teasing. So did I

remember him. I'd followed a fine one out of the country missing shot after

shot all morning after a series of stalks in the heat, then crawled up to an

ant hill to shoot one that was not nearly as good, taken a rest on the ant

hill, missed the buck at fifty yards, seen him stand facing me, absolutely

still, his nose up, and shot him in the chest. He went over backwards and as

I went up to him he jumped up and went off, staggering.

I sat down and waited for him to stop and when he did, obviously

anchored, I sat there, using the sling, and shot for his neck, slowly and

carefully, missing him eight times straight in a mounting, stubborn rage,

not making a correction but shooting exactly for the same place in the same

way each time, the gun bearers all laughing, the truck that had come up with

the outfit holding more amused niggers, P.O.M. and Pop saying nothing, me

sitting there cold, crazy-stubborn-furious, determined to break his neck

rather than walk up and perhaps start him off over that heat-hazy, baking,

noontime plain. Nobody said anything. I reached up my hand to M'Cola for

more cartridges, shot again, carefully, and missed, and on the tenth shot

broke his damned neck. I turned away without looking toward him.

'Poor Papa, ' P.O.M. said.

'It's the light and the wind, ' Pop said. We had not known each other

very well then. 'They were all hitting the same place. I could see them

throw the dust.'

'I was a bloody, stubborn fool, ' I said.

Anyway, I could shoot now. So far, and aided by flukes, my luck was

running now.

We came on into sight of camp and shouted. No one came out. Finally

Karl came out of his tent. He went back as soon as he saw us, then came out

again.

'Hey, Karl, ' I yelled. He waved and went back in the tent again. Then

came toward us. He was shaky with excitement and I saw he had been washing

blood off his hands.

'What is it? '

'Rhino, ' he said.

'Did you get in trouble with him? '

'No. We killed him.'

'Fine. Where is he? '

'Over there behind that tree.'

We went over. There was the newly severed head of a rhino that was a

rhino. He was twice the size of the one I had killed. The little eyes were

shut and a fresh drop of blood stood in the corner of one like a tear. The

head bulked enormous and the horn swept up and back in a fine curve. The

hide was an inch thick where it hung in a cape behind the head and was as

white where it was cut as freshly sliced coco-nut.

'What is he? About thirty inches? '

'Hell, no, ' said Pop. 'Not thirty inches.'

'But he iss a very fine one, Mr. Jackson, ' Dan said.

'Yes. He's a fine one, ' Pop said.

'Where did you get him? '

'Just outside of camp.'

'He wass standing in some bush. We heard him grunt.'

'We thought he was a buffalo, ' Karl said.

'He iss a very fine one, ' Dan repeated.

'I'm damned glad you got him, ' I said.

There we were, the three of us, wanting to congratulate, waiting to be

good sports about this rhino whose smaller horn was longer than our big one,

this huge, tear-eyed marvel of a rhino, this dead, head-severed dream rhino,

and instead we all spoke like people who were about to become seasick on a

boat, or people who had suffered some heavy financial loss. We were ashamed

and could do nothing about it. I wanted to say something pleasant and

hearty, instead, 'How many times did you shoot him? ' I asked.

'I don't know. We didn't count. Five or six, I guess.'

'Five, I think, ' said Dan.

Poor Karl, faced by these three sad-faced congratulators, was beginning

to feel his pleasure in the rhino drained away from him.

'We got one too, ' said P.O.M.

'That's fine, ' said Karl. 'Is he bigger than this one? '

'Hell, no. He's a lousy runt.'

'I'm sorry, ' Karl said. He meant it, simply and truly.

'What the hell have you got to be sorry about with a rhino like that?

He's a beauty. Let me get the camera and take some pictures of him.'

I went after the camera. P.O.M. took me by the arm and walked close

beside me.

'Papa, please try to act like a human being, ' she said. 'Poor Karl.

You're making him feel dreadfully.'

'I know it, ' I said. 'I'm trying not to act that way.'

There was Pop. He shook his head. 'I never felt more of a four-letter

man, ' he said. 'But it was like a kick in the stomach. I'm really delighted,

of course.'

'Me too, ' I said. 'I'd rather have him beat me. You know that. Truly.

But why couldn't he just get a good one, two or three inches longer? Why did

he have to get one that makes mine ridiculous? It just makes ours silly.'

'You can always remember that shot.'

'To hell with that shot. That bloody fluke. God, what a beautiful

rhino.'

'Come on, let's pull ourselves together and try to act like white

people with him.'

'We were {awful, '} P.O.M. said.

'I know it, ' I said. 'And all the time I was trying to be jolly. You

{know} I'm delighted he has it.'

'You were certainly jolly. Both of you, ' P.O.M. said.

'But did you see M'Cola, ' Pop asked. M'Cola had looked at the rhino

dismally, shaken his head and walked away.

'He's a wonderful rhino, ' P.O.M. said. 'We must act decently and make

Karl feel good.'

But it was too late. We could not make Karl feel good and for a long

time we could not feel good ourselves. The porters came into camp with the

loads and we could see them all, and all of our outfit, go over to where the

rhino head lay in the shade. They were all very quiet. Only the skinner was

delighted to see such a rhino head in camp.

'M'uzuri sana, ' he said to me. And measured the horn with shiftings of

his widespread hand. 'Kubwa sana! '

'N'Dio. M'uzuri sana, ' I agreed.

'B'wana Kabor shoot him? '

'Yes.'

'M'uzuri sana.'

'Yes, ' I agreed. 'M'uzuri sana.'

The skinner was the only gent in the outfit. We had tried, in all the

shoot, never to be competitive. Karl and

I had each tried to give the other the better chance on everything that

came up. I was, truly, very fond of him and he was entirely unselfish and

altogether self-sacrificing. I knew I could outshoot him and I could always

outwalk him and, steadily, he got trophies that made mine dwarfs in

comparison. He had done some of the worst shooting at game I had ever seen

and I had shot badly twice on the trip, at that grant and at a bustard once

on the plain, still he beat me on all the tangible things we had to show.

For a while we had joked about it and I knew everything would even up. But

it didn't even up. Now, on this rhino hunt, I had taken the first crack at

the country. We had sent him after meat while we had gone into a new

country. We had not treated him badly, but we had not treated him too well,

and still he had beaten me. Not only beaten, beaten was all right. He had

made my rhino look so small that I could never keep him in the same small

town where we lived. He had wiped him out. I had the shot I had made on him

to remember and nothing could take that away except that it was so bloody

marvellous I knew I would wonder, sooner or later, if it was not really a

fluke in spite of my unholy self-confidence. Old Karl had put it on us all

right with that rhino. He was in his tent now, writing a letter.

Under the dining tent fly Pop and I talked over what we had better do.

'He's got his rhino anyway, ' Pop said. 'That saves us time. Now you

can't stand on that one.'

'No.'

'But this country is washed out. Something wrong with it. Droopy claims

to know a good country about three hours from here in the lorries and

another hour or so on with the porters. We can head for there this afternoon

with a light outfit, send the lorries back, and Karl and Dan can move on

down to M'uto Umbu and he can get his oryx.'

'Fine.'

'He has a chance to get a leopard on that rhino carcass this evening,

too, or in the morning. Dan said they heard one. We'll try to get a rhino

out of this country of Droopy's and then you join up with them and go on for

kudu. We want to leave plenty of time for them. '

'Fine.'

'Even if you don't get an oryx. You'll pick one up somewhere.'

'Even if I don't get one at all, it's all right. We'll get one another

time. I want a kudu, though. '

'You'll get one. You're sure to.'

'I'd rather get one, a good one, than all the rest. I don't give a damn

about these rhino outside of the fun of hunting them. But I'd like to get

one that wouldn't look silly beside that dream rhino of his.'

'Absolutely.'

So we told Karl and he said: 'Whatever you say. Sure. I hope you get

one twice as big. ' He really meant it. He was feeling better now and so

were we all.